had vowed that no portion of wealth should descend to his daughter if wedded to Sir John, but that the whole should be settled on Sir Oskatell. "The course of true love never did run smooth." That Sir John Stanley had a watchful eye at the time to the fortune as well as to the person of Isabella, is by some rather freely hinted. This, however, turns out to be an unfounded calumny, as the events hereafter unfolded will abundantly demonstrate.
Sir John, after vainly endeavouring to avert this cruel purpose, and to win the old man's favour, entered into the service of the king. He hoped that some lucky adventure would enable him to appear with more certainty of success the next time he played the suitor at Lathom.
Isabella, though sorely importuned to the contrary, remained true to her first and only attachment; and Sir Oskatell was likely, in the end, to gather to himself the whole of these vast possessions. A disposition to this effect she had for some time suspected. His conduct, too, was less kindly of late, and he took upon himself an authority more direct and unconditional. Indeed, it seemed but too evident that Sir Oskatell was looked upon as the ultimate possessor. The maiden pined sorely at her lot, and lack of perpetuity in the inheritance. But woman's wits have compassed a sea of impossibilities, and will ever continue irresistible until their beautiful forms shall no longer irradiate these dull mortalities with their presence.
One day an aged minstrel craved admission. Sir Thomas had just retired from the banquet. Isabella and the lady of Lathom were at their usual employment in their private chamber, plying the needle in "Antres vast," and wildernesses of embroidery, along with the maids. The request was granted; soon after which an old man, bending apparently under an accumulation of years and infirmities, entered the apartment. There was a keen scrutinising restlessness of the eye, stealing through the silvery locks about his brow, that but ill accorded with his apparent decrepitude.
After a very profound obeisance, which the lady-mother scarcely recognised, he addressed himself to his vocation. A mighty indifferent prelude succeeded the arrangement of the strings, then a sort of jig, accented by the toe and head of the performer. Afterwards he broke into a wild and singular extempore, which gradually shaped itself into measure and rhythm,
at times beautifully varied, and accompanied by the voice. We shall attempt a more modern and intelligible version of the sentiments he expressed:—
Song.
1.
"Rich round thy brow are the clusters bright,
And thy tresses are like the plume—
The plume of the raven, glossy with light,
Or the ray on the spirit's deep gloom.
2.
"As I gaze, the dim echoes of years that are past
Bring their joys to my bosom in vain;
For the chords, which their spell once o'er memory cast,
Ne'er shall waken to gladness again!"
"I hold these minstrels now no better than the croaking of your carrion crow," said the elder lady: "these are not like the songs we used to hear in hall and bower at Dunham Massey. Then "—the old lady forgetting that her own ears had played her false, and her relish for these dainties had departed—"Then," raising her voice and gazing round, as past scenes recurred to her fancy, "how my young heart would leap at the sound of their ditties! and how I long to hear again 'Sir Armoric' and the 'Golden-Legend,' and all about the lady with the swine's snout and the silver trough!"