Wildly he rushed into the arbor, and clasped the fairy woman over and over to his breast—swearing and protesting most vehemently that he would only go and see his father and receive his blessing, and his mother’s kiss, and his sister’s farewell embrace, and then straightway return to the island and his fairy bride. And so, he again pressed her little bosom to his own, and kissed her lips, and she, poor thing! believed him—for she was nothing but a woman then, and had lost her fairy sagacity—and twining her beautiful limbs around him, as if she would grow there forever, she flooded his bosom with her pure warm tears; and gently removing her now insensible form to a green bank, strown with violets, and calling the good old hermit from the hut, he rushed out, and mounting his gallant steed, dashed wildly across the Rhine, and bent his way to his father’s castle.
And now I must let you into a very important secret; which is, that our gallant knight had already wooed and won the daughter of a powerful nobleman, whose castle was on the opposite bank of the river to his father’s,—and the marriage contracts and settlements had all been made and ratified by the old people. The lady was a pretty, unmeaning, blue-eyed girl, and knew no better than to fall in love according to law and the command of her father; and she therefore made no opposition, but merely waited in listless indifference, till her husband should release her virgin bosom from its bursting boddice, and lead her to the nuptial chamber. Of what that was, she had no possible idea—or, if she had, nobody was ever the wiser of it.
And so the knight dashed onwards, outstripping all his friends, until he arrived breathless at his father’s castle, scarce knowing where he was or where he had been. But all question or surmise was smothered in the joy occasioned by his return. Feasts and festivals were the order of the day—and our knight was eternally stuck alongside of the blue-eyed girl he was to marry. But he thought of nothing but a pair of large black orbs that used to dart lightning into his soul, when he was on the little island; and he never heard his intended bride utter a word without thrilling, by contrast, all over, with the memory of that fairy music which soothed him in Undine’s bower. And he saw her in his dreams—and even when he was wide awake, his soul still lingered round that charmed spot, hallowed by the presence of immortal love. But earthly ties are more palpable than the air-wrought links of the soul’s affections, and find a stronger hold in our gross and earthly nature; and so, day after day, the dream of his sweet Undine became dimmer and more fleeting; and at last, like one intoxicated with glorious wine who sinks to sleep dreamless, he tumbled listlessly back to earth, and his fairy bride was remembered no more. The day for his marriage was fixed, and the time was spent in a continual round of feasting and merry making.
Where was Undine all this time? What did she? Tell us all about her. In good time you shall hear the whole sad story.
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CHAPTER III.
Have you ever, dear reader, journeyed in the hot sun-shine, your brain literally broiling in the heat, and the dust driving, like a sleet-storm, into your face, filling your eyes, ears and throat with minute particles, which irritated you almost to phrenzy—and, when almost ready to drop down dead with fatigue, thirst and despair, suddenly seen, upon turning an abrupt angle in the path, a fair smiling woodland lawn stretching before you, and a cool, limpid stream of water gushing out from among the flowers, and a whole orchard of birds singing gaily in the branches? So, after the dusty and perplexing toils of life, return we to Undine and her strange fortunes.
Ah, she was a guilty thing—that beautiful and fairy girl! for what right had she to sacrifice her celestial nature, and become a mere thing of earth for worms to feed upon, just for a few mortal kisses? True, true—but those kisses! oh, what rapture lies hidden in the spell of that hour when the divine soul, with its cold immaculate brightness, yields to the warmer thrillings of terrestrial love, and melts away in ecstasy beneath the glance of passion-lighted eyes—the pressure of warm sweet lips! Immortals live in a bright round of perpetual purity and lustre. No o’erwrought heaving of the breast—no momentary thrilling of agonising bliss—no melting climax of joy, concentrating in its burning focus a whole life of hope and aspiration—repays the weary soul for all her watchings. Undine had drunk of the intoxicating draught till her lips grew to the goblet.
Ah, who can blame her? Who has not tasted moments of earthly bliss so intense that were immortality’s brightest visions spread palpably before him, he would spurn them all?
Soon after the knight left the little island, our good old hermit, upon going to Undine’s apartment, as was his wont, saw her not. He searched every where—the garden, the river bank, the thicket which surrounded his little plantation, were all examined in vain. She had fled away upon the wings of love, and, panting with toil and exhaustion, came at last to her knight’s castle, and ran like lightning through the court. What saw she? Lights were glancing in every niche,—loud and boisterous noises of merriment and gaiety echoed through the passages—and, bracing her little heart with the strength of despair, Undine rushed wildly to the great saloon, and saw the knight—her own beloved—him for whose love Heaven and its joys she had lightly thrown away—leading the pretty blue-eyed German girl to the altar. The white-robed priest was there—and, as he completed the ceremony, he raised his unconscious hands and blessed them in the name of the virgin. And the harp and tambour struck up their wild music—and away fled the bride and bride-groom with the joyous throng of revellers to the dance.