GINEVRA OR THE OLD OAK CHEST

A CHRISTMAS STORY

BY SUSAN E. WALLACE

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY General LEW WALLACE

——❖——

NEW YORK THE H. W. HAGEMANN PUBLISHING COMPANY 114 Fifth Avenue 1894

Copyright, 1886, By WORTHINGTON CO.

TO MY BELOVED NIECES, WHOSE INTEREST IN THIS STORY SUGGESTED TO THEIR AUNT THE IDEA OF TELLING IT TO OTHER CHILDREN.

S. E. W.

Crawfordsville, Indiana, Christmas, 1886.

Christmas stories are usually merry; and in this happy time, with its shining presents, its good things to eat and to drink, its music, lights, and visitors, all should be gay. But mine must be a sad story, because, being a true one, I cannot change it—one of the saddest of the thousands told since that first Christmas Eve when the traveling star from the East stood still in the midnight above the holy hill of Bethlehem. At Modena you may see the portrait of the lady I tell of; in Florence—rich and glorious city—you will learn her history; and at Abbotsford they show the bridal-chest where Death lay waiting in the dark to claim her as his own.

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GINEVRA; OR, THE OLD OAK CHEST.

“’Tis an old tale and often told.”—Scott.

CHAPTER I.

Many years ago there lived in an ancient castle in England a proud Baron, who had one child, Ginevra, a little girl named for her mother, who died the night her baby was born.

The servants used to say the Baroness had led a wretched life; that her lord was harsh and stern at home, as he was fierce and cruel in war; but this I do not truly know. He dearly loved his little daughter, and hours at a time would carry her in his arms and walk up and down the hall before the blazing fires in winter. It was a fair sight to see the Baron with the baby, in her long white dress, lying on his shoulder, her light hair against his rough beard, or to see him dandle her in his hand, hard almost as8 the steel gloves he wore to battle, as if she were no more than a feather’s weight.

The castle was gloomy and strong, with towers guarded by sentinels, and was enclosed by a high wall of stone, beyond which was a deep moat filled with water, that could be crossed by only one drawbridge.

Once, when there was war in the land, the King called on all good men for help; and the Baron, ready for battle, gathered his people in the courtyard to hear his last orders. He held up his sword, dinted by many a blow in bloody fight, showed the cross on its hilt, and spoke in a loud voice:

“Swear by this blessed sign, whatever befall, you will defend Lady Ginevra to the death!”

And every man lifted his right hand, knelt where he stood, and swore by the Holy Cross he would defend the Lady Ginevra to the death. He then mounted his coal-black steed, took the baby from her nurse, and lifted her in sight of all the crowd. She clapped her hands and laughed to see the flashing armor and flags embroidered with red roses, and the air rung with the shout: “Long live the Lady Ginevra!”

A fortune-teller had said Ginevra was doomed to sorrow; and 9this made the Baron watch her with anxious care. There was one soldier whose only duty was to guard his young mistress. Said the Baron to him: “Keep her always in sight, Ban. While thou wearest that scar on thy brow, I will remember thou hast saved my life. Some day thou mayest save hers. She is the last of my name and house, and if evil come upon her, my heart will break. Thou art my truest follower, Ban. Whatever else fail, never lose sight of Lady Ginevra.”

“I will die ere a hair of her head suffer,” said the old retainer, stoutly. “A soldier’s scars are his honors, and I will be proud to wear one for my Lady’s sake.”

So Ban, with spear and sword, was always in sight of his young mistress; and at night he lay in the corridor, outside her chamber door, his spear against the wall, so that no one could go out or in without waking him.

The Baron fought well for king and country, and at Christmas rode home on his coal-black steed. Then there was a mighty feast in the great hall, and, for two days and nights, whoever chose could eat and drink of the best.

The ladies’ hall was wreathed with evergreens; red berries of holly shone bright on the old oak wall, and from the center of10 the ceiling hung a heavy branch of mistletoe; and every one who passed under it was sure to be caught and kissed. Plates were laid for a hundred guests, and there were oxen roasted whole, and huge pies of venison; and all night long was heard the sound of harp and horn, and tread of dancers, dancing in tune. Oh! it was a rousing Christmas, and little Ginevra was the soul and life of it all!

There were few books in those days, and instead of reading, she was taught to embroider with silks, to play on the lute, and to sing. She was so gentle and gracious, even the bees, the birds, and the swans on the lake, knew her, and everything that knew her loved her. So watched, and so beloved, fifteen years Ginevra grew,—

And the fame of her beauty spread far and wide.

A tranquil life she lived, rarely going beyond the castle, yet loved by many who had children of their own, but who freely spoke of Ginevra as best and dearest where all were near and dear.

“Why, my darling,” said the Baron, “why does everybody love my child?”

“I do not know,” she answered, with a thoughtful, puzzled11 look. “Perhaps,” she added shyly, “it is because I love everybody.”

“That much nearer heaven than I,” said the father, gazing into the picture-like face, with the mild look which never came into his own except for her. “The angels in heaven can do no more.”

Her fresh, light rooms, the only cheerful ones in the dismal stone pile, opened out on a broad balcony, filled with plants; fluttering leaves, speckled shadows, sweet-smelling flowers, through which the sun at setting poured his last, last rays, as lingering through the late twilight to kiss her pure forehead once more. The blessed sunlight! You might think some of its brightness was tangled in the golden head which glanced among the flowers, and that their sweetness had passed into her soul.

It was the Baron’s study to smooth from her path every care and trial, and to temper every wind that blew past her. The walls round the courtyard below the balcony were so high it was sheltered from the coldest blasts, so that birds sang in the bare, leafless thickets of shrubbery as though it were always spring; and all the year round it was a delightful playground.

In summer, with her little maid, Geta, she used to play hide and seek in the alleys of the rose garden, where the roses were all12 red—the Baron would not have a white one among them—and as the quick color came and went in her face, he would say:

“My child, the roses are ever at war in thy cheek.”

“Yes, father; but thou sayest the red always wins.”

“So it does, dear heart, and so it shall. No white leaf for us! The red rose forever! When I miss it from thy face the sweetness of my life is gone; and thou must wear one for me ever in thy hair.”

Near the castle wall was a dark forest, of which awful tales were told; how it was full of robber caves, and dens, and dim paths leading into snares and pitfalls, and among roaring wild beasts that were forever seeking what they might devour.

The sentinel on the bridge said he would rather fight the infidel all day than venture into the forest after sundown. Close to its edge, in the shade of giant oaks, was a fountain of marble, with water playing night and day, cold as ice, clear as glass. And here, one summer afternoon, Ginevra strayed with Geta. Her feet scarcely bent the daisies in her path; the breeze tossed her flossy locks, where the red rose shone like a jewel; and, as old Ban stalked behind her, like a tall black shadow, he thought he had never seen his Lady so lovely.

When they reached the fountain, Geta tried to tune the lute, but13 could not play till Ginevra brought the silver strings together; and, as she touched its chords, a fierce stag-hound sprang out of the forest so suddenly, she dropped the lute and screamed for fear.

Quick as lightning, Ban was before her, and in another moment would have split the dog’s skull, but a voice shouted:

“Stay! Stay! He will not harm any one!”

Ban stood still, but lowered not his lance. Presently, a youth, mounted on a milk-white steed, rode up, called the hound to his feet, gave his horse’s bridle to a page, who followed on a red roan, and then he knelt before Ginevra and quieted her fears.

I do not know how it came to pass, but these four were soon talking as if they had been friends all their days, and there was nothing in the wide world but their own innocent young hearts. They tried their fortune by dropping bay-leaves in the water. Then they sat on mossy roots, and Ginevra sang of the lady who was heartbroken and drowned herself in the fountain for her own true love; and how her spirit rises and floats in the air above it, like a mist at evening.

“Thy song is too sad, Lady,” said the youth. “Let me have the lute.”

With a free hand, he struck the strings, and sang of King14 Arthur and his bold knights, and of the daring deeds they did, whose like England has never seen since his time; no, nor never will, till Arthur comes again. Then he turned his eyes—steel-blue eyes, flashing like a sword-blade—toward Ginevra, and sang of love in such strain she thought the fountain stopped its splashing and the trees bent their heads to listen. When the last echo of his voice died away, Ban spoke out, and said:

“My Lady, an’ it please you, my lord, the Baron has forbidden us to stay outside the wall after nightfall.”

“But, Ban, he knows thou art between me and danger. Still, the forest’s shades grow dark, and I see thou art right. The sun is nearly set.”

Then the youth whispered something in her ear, and Ginevra, blushing brightly, said:

“Never, never!”

“Give me a favor to wear—the rose from thy hair, sweet lady. I, too, belong to the house and banner of the red.”

She loosed it from her shining tresses; he kissed the flower, put it in his bosom, and said:

“I would not give one of the least of these leaves for the King’s crown.”

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Lightly he sprung to the saddle, without so much as touching his horse’s neck, lifted his plumed cap, and, followed by the page, on the red roan, dashed away into the forest. Ginevra and Geta watched them disappear among the black shadows, and then turned and sighed, they knew not why.

The Baron met them outside the castle gate.

“Where hast thou been, my child?” he asked.

“By Edith’s fountain, father.”

“And didst thou drop thy rose in it?”

“No; I gave it to a youth who begged it,” she answered, blushing.

“Ha! And thou hast brought back two,” he said, “and they are both for me, my summer child.”

And he kissed her on each cheek.

The color ran up to her forehead, and as she stood in the rosy sunset, with downcast eyes, in the bloom and glow of youth so beautiful, the old Baron’s heart yearned toward his daughter. He gathered her in his arms, and said:

“I will carry thee home, little one. Thou art my Rose of the World; for there is none on earth like thee. As we go, thou shalt tell me of this youth. Did he ride a milk-white steed?”

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“Yes; a high, proud one; not a single black hair on him; its mane swam the wind, and its trappings were of scarlet and gold.”

“A goodly youth, with spurs; was he not?”

“Yes; his hair was black as the wing of the night raven. He had a noble air, and oh! an eye that takes your breath!”

“And his page, Ginevra?”

“A comely little page, but nothing like his master.”

Here Geta made as if she would speak; her mistress went on:

“But nothing like his master, who carried a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a silver bugle-horn.”

“It is young Lord Lovel!” He was silent a moment. “How old art thou, my daughter?”

“Sixteen, come Christmas.”

Then the Baron fell into a muse, and walked on, carrying her all the way.

After supper he sat beside her in the hall, playing idly with her hand, that was soft as the down on the dove’s breast; and at last he said:

“Sweet child, tell me, dost thou know aught of love—young love, I mean, not father’s love?”

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“I have sung it in song, and heard it in story,” she answered timidly.

“Listen, then. Lord Lovel is thy betrothed. Thou wert promised to him in the cradle; but we fathers have kept the secret, and let true love find its own, as it is certain to do, and has done to-day. On thy sixteenth birthday we will have the betrothal feast. Now go to sleep and dreams that maidens often have ere they reach thy age.”

Ginevra’s chamber was a lofty room, with curtained bed so high it could be reached only by steps. Geta slept in a cot beside her. They usually fell asleep at dark, and awoke at daybreak, but that night there was no slumber in their eyelids, and the tall clock on the stairs struck midnight ere they ceased to talk of the winsome young lord, and his gallant little page, Alfred.

Turning on the stone floor in the corridor outside, Ban heard the murmur of voices under the door, and the shrewd soldier smiled in the dark, and winked his one eye, as he said to himself:

“That arrow was double-headed. It’s all over with my Lady and that forward little Geta.”

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CHAPTER II.

Four weeks before the next Christmas the Baron proclaimed there would be good cheer for all comers two days and nights at the castle. And when the time came, the bell on the tower, which sounded only for births, deaths, and weddings, rung merrily through the frosty air, bonfires were lighted on the hills, the fountain ran wine, and every man who chose might put in his cup and drink his fill. Outside the wall were crowds of men gaming, wrestling, and trying their strength, and a few bloody noses and a cracked skull or two; but that was nothing in those rough times.

In the hall were knights and earls wearing belt, spur, and plume; gay ladies in velvets, with sweeping trains; and children pages, and pert maids, who did nothing but stand under the mistletoe; and then what kissing, what blushing, what shouts, what laughter! The sun never shone on so merry a Christmas!

Instead of the red rose, Ginevra wore a coronet of pearls; and in that goodly company her beauty shone like a star, the brightest where ten thousand are.

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The ladies’ hall was a lordly room, with long rows of columns, wreathed with garlands; and there the guests assembled at night. As they walked together, Ginevra said to Lord Lovel:

“I will give thee a weary chase for me some day. I will frighten thee now.”

And, with a bound, she darted from column to column, and was out of sight. Vexed and troubled, Lovel flew after her. He was swift as a deer, but could not overtake her; and in the midst of the chase, she stole behind and touched him on the shoulder, laughing merrily at his fears.

“Promise me, sweetheart,” said he, “thou wilt never fly from me again, till thou spread thy white wings for Heaven. Even Ban lost his breath trying to follow thee.”

“I will not promise,” she said, shaking her sunny ringlets. “I love to tease too well. Ban says my feet have wings, and with them I find hiding-places where no one can follow.”

“I fear thou wilt be lost in some of these dark passages; no one living understands all their windings; but I’ll hide thee next Christmas!”

“Where, my Lord? In the donjon keep, behind the iron gratings?”

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“A safer place than that. In my heart, sweet love. There I’ll shut thee up, and keep thee safe forever and a day.”

Then he gave a close kiss, and did not take his eyes off her till it was time to part.

When the night was far spent, a strange minstrel came to the door, and begged to look, if but for one moment, on the Lady Ginevra.

He was old and poor, and shook with cold. Room was made for him by the fire; and when he had eaten and drank, he lifted his harp, and, moving back from the crowd, passed under the mistletoe. Now, it was a great slight for one to do this and not be kissed, and, of course, nobody wanted to kiss an old beggar. He heard the laugh and jeer, and, looking up, saw the green branch; then his head sunk on his breast with shame. Ginevra saw it, and snatched an ivy wreath, and stepped toward him, saying playfully,

“Kneel down!”

He knelt and kissed the hem of her robe. Not even she was ever more beautiful than then.

“I crown thy harp, and call thee knight”—she touched his shoulder. “Be thou wise, brave, and tuneful. Rise, Sir Minstrel, and let these lords and ladies hear thy bravest harping.”

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For a moment the old man was overcome. Then he swept the harp with such skill and grace there was instant silence. He sang:

GINEVRA.

He had heard of her beauty, but the half had not been told; what his eyes had this night seen would ever be a part of sight; his hand was weak and old, but so long as he could touch a string it should be to her name; and at his dying hour thought of her tender pity would warm his heart as it had never warmed with wine.

Praises ran through the crowd; the Baron sent Alfred with a purse of broad gold pieces, but the minstrel put it back with a smile, and unclasped the ragged cloak; down dropped hood, mask, and gray hair; out stepped a youth, tall, straight, and handsome; on his neck a sparkling chain the Baron knew right well.

“It is Prince Edward! Long live the Prince!” he exclaimed.

And every man knelt and shouted, till the arches rang,

“Long live Prince Edward!”

He bowed his thanks, and lightly touched the harp again. His fingers strayed uncertainly among the strings, like one busy with memory; a moment more, and he seemed to catch the22 melody, and, resting his burning glance upon Ginevra’s fair face, he sang:

PRINCE EDWARD’S SONG.

Then the Prince led Ginevra to the dance, and it was whispered23 she was fit to be a queen; but the Baron shook his head, even in that proud hour, and said:

“She must wed whom she will. I cannot force her heart.”

When the holidays were ended, Lovel set off to Holy Land, to be gone a twelvemonth and a day. Ginevra wept bitterly, but promised to keep true heart and constant mind till he should come home, never, day nor night, to leave her more.

The King’s son tarried and wooed her with words women love to hear; but she quietly said:

“I will wed my own true love, or die a nun.”

He prayed her to give him a favor, a scarf, a glove, a ring; but no; she spoke so firmly he saw it was useless to stay longer, and went away, swearing he would spring into the Thames or the depths of the sea, and drown himself.

Ginevra watched a splendid train escort him through the forest, and when it was out of sight, said:

“Ban, dost thou think he will kill himself? It would be a sad thing to lose our Crown Prince.”

Ban smiled grimly; he had been a wild one, but was tame enough now.

“Lady Ginevra,” he said, “ever since the world was made,24 men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Prince Edward’s heart is sound; he will marry in less than a twelvemonth and a day.”

And so he did.

Now there were many curious things about this castle which have not been mentioned. In the bell-tower, so high, it seemed to touch the sky, lived a crow, said to be a hundred years old, and an owl that hooted at night, and winked and blinked by day. There were lonesome cells where monks used to live; narrow corridors and winding ways easy to be lost in; and secret doors in odd places where you would never think of looking for a door; but Ginevra knew every dark corner from turret to foundation; in every black closet her bright eyes had peered, and under every hidden archway her fairy feet had glided along.