I know not whether the architecture of the middle ages--that peculiar architecture, I mean, which existed in different varieties in England, from a little before the commencement of the reign of the Conqueror, till the end of the reign of Henry VII.--can be said to have advanced or retrograded from the time of Edward III. to the time of Richard. Every one will judge according to his particular tastes of the merits of the style; but one thing is certain, that, although the houses of the lower orders had remained much the same, the domestic arrangement of the baronial residences had greatly improved. Notwithstanding that long period of contention, which succeeded the accession of Henry VI., notwithstanding constant wars and the frequent summons to the field, men seemed to have looked for comfort in the laying out of their dwellings; and the feudal castle, although still a castle, and well fitted for defence, contained in it many of the conveniences of a modern house. Perhaps it was, that the struggle of great parties had taken the place of private quarrels between the great barons themselves and struggles between mere individual conspirators and the crown. Thus great towns were attacked more frequently than fortified mansions; and, during this period, we meet with very few instances of a simple baronial fortress being subjected to siege.
However that might be, the chambers in a great nobleman's house, the halls, the lodging chambers, the ladies' bower, were now all more commodious, light, and airy, than at that former period of few, small, narrow and deep windows, when light and air were excluded, as well as the missiles of an enemy. Not only in monastery, convent, and college, but even in private dwellings, the large oriel was seen here and there, suffering the beams of day to pour freely into the hall, and casting the lines of its delicate tracery upon the floor; and, raised somewhat above the general level of the room, approached by two steps, and furnished with window seats, it afforded a pleasant and sun-shiny sitting-place to the elder and younger members of the family.
There was one of these oriel windows in the lesser hall, of Chidlow castle; and round the raised platform, within the sort of bay which it formed, ran a sort of bench or window seat of carved oak, covered with a loose cushion of crimson velvet. The lattice was open, and soft air and bright light streamed in. The winter had been remarkably long and severe. The snow had lain upon the ground till the end of March; and, even then, when one bright day had succeeded, and withdrawn the white covering of the earth, it was only to be followed by a week or ten days of sharp frost, which reigned in its full rigour during some of the events which we have narrated in the previous chapters. Now, however, winter had departed, and spring commenced with that sudden and rapid transition, which is often the case in more northern countries, and is sometimes seen even in England. The air, as I have said, was soft and genial; the blue skies were hardly chequered by a fleecy cloud; the birds were singing in the trees; the red buds were bursting with the long-checked sap; and snowdrop and violet seemed running races with the primrose and the anemone, to catch the first smile of their sweet mother spring. The little twining shrubs were already green with their young leaves; and the honeysuckle strove hard to cast a verdant mantle over the naked brown limbs of the tall trees which it had climbed. The scene from the lattice of the oriel window was one of those fair English landscapes on which the eye loves to rest; for the castle was situated upon a height, and below spread out a rich and beautiful country, waving in long lines of meadow and wood for fifteen or sixteen miles, till sloping uplands towered into high hills, which glowed with a peculiarly yellow light, never seen anywhere, that I know of, beyond the limits of this island. Gazing from that lattice, over that scene, sat two young and beautiful girls, with whom the reader is already acquainted. Very different, it is true, was their garb from that in which they were first presented to you whose eye rests upon this page; for the more simple garments of the convent had given place to the splendid costume of the court of that time; and the forms, which required no ornament, were half hidden in lace and embroidery. But there was still the beautiful face of Iola, with the bright beaming expression, which seemed to pour forth hope and joy in every look, but now somewhat shaded with a cloud of care; and there, the not less fair, though somewhat more thoughtful, countenance of her cousin Constance, with her deep feeling eyes poring over the far prospect, and seeming to search for something through the thin summer mist that softened all the features of the landscape.
They were both very silent, and evidently busied with their own thoughts. Some attendants passed across the hall, and others lingered, to arrange this or that article of furniture. Others entered to speak with them and the two girls, from time to time, turned an inquiring look at those who came and went, showing that they were in some sort strangers in the home of their fathers.
At length, the hall was cleared of all but themselves, and Constance said in a low voice, "I wish, dear cousin, that my aunt would come. We should not then feel so desolate. I think our good lord and uncle might have left us at the abbey till he was at home himself."
"He would not have made the place much more cheerful," answered Iola, with a faint smile; "for wisdom is a very melancholy thing, dear Constance; at least if it be always like his. I fear me, too, even my good merry aunt would not make this place feel anything but desolate to me, just at present. She might cheer and support me a little, it is true; but I have got terrible dreams of the future, Constance. I try not to think of them, but they will come."
She paused and bent down her eyes, in what seemed painful meditation; and Constance replied, in a gentle tone, saying: "Why, how is this, Iola? You used not to look upon the matter so seriously."
"Alack, it gets very bad as it comes near," answered Iola, with an uncheerful laugh. "It is something very like being sold for a slave, Constance. However, the poor slave cannot help himself, nor I either, so do not let us talk any more about it. I suppose I shall soon see my purchaser. I wonder what he is like. Do you recollect whether he is white or black?"
"Good faith, not I," answered Constance; "but he is not quite a negro, I suppose. I have heard people say he was a pretty boy."
"A pretty boy!" cried Iola, raising her eyebrows. "Heaven defend me! What will become of me if I am married to a pretty boy? Somewhat like Sir Edward Hungerford, I suppose, lisping lamentable nonsense about essences, and bestowing his best thoughts upon his tailor."
"Nay, nay! Why should you conjure up such fancies?" said Constance. "You seem resolved to dislike him without cause."
"Nature, dear cousin," said Iola. "Nature and the pig's prerogative, to dislike any road we are forced to travel. Yet, it is bad policy, I will admit; and I will try to shake it off, and to like him to the best of my ability. The time is coming fast when I must, whether I will or not; for I think the oath I am about to take is to love him. I do think it is very hard that women should not be allowed to choose for themselves, and yet be forced to take an oath which they do not know whether they can keep or not. Well, the worst of all the seven sacraments is matrimony, to my mind. Extreme unction is a joke to it--how can I tell that I shall love him? I don't think I can; and yet I must swear I will."
"You are making a rack of your own fancy," said Constance. "Wait till you have seen him at least, Iola; for, after all, you may find him the very man of your own heart."
Iola started, and then shook her head mournfully, saying, "of my own heart? Oh, no!"
Constance gazed at her in surprise; and for the first time a suspicion of the truth crossed her mind. She said not a word, however, of her doubts, but resolved to watch narrowly, with that kind and eager affection which two girls brought up from youth together often feel for each other, where no rivalry has ever mingled its bitter drop with the sweet current of kindred love. She changed the subject of conversation too, pointing to some towers in the distance, and saying, "I wonder whose castle that is."
"Middleham, I dare say," answered Iola, in an absent tone. "It is somewhere out there--but yet it cannot be Middleham either. Middleham is too far."
"There is something moving upon that road which we see going along the side of the hill," said Constance. "I dare say it is my uncle and his train."
"No, no, Leicester lies out there," answered Iola; "you never can find out the country, dear cousin; and I learn it all in a minute, like the leaf of a book. I dare say it is some wild lord, riding to hawk or to hunt. Heaven send it be not my falcon, just towering to strike me before my uncle comes. I'll not look at them. They seem coming this way;" and she turned from the window and went down the steps, seating herself upon the lower one, and resting her cheek upon her hand.
Constance did watch the approaching party, however, till it became evident that those whom she saw were coming direct towards the castle. They were now seen and now lost among the trees and hedges; but every time they reappeared they were nearer.
At length Constance turned her eyes to Iola, and said, "they are coming hither, whoever they are; and my uncle is certainly not one of the party. They are only five or six in all, and seem young men. Had we not better go away to our own chamber?"
"No," answered Iola, starting up. "I will stay and face them. Something seems to tell me, that I know who is coming. You shall see how well I can behave, Constance, wild as you think me, and untutored in the world's ways as I am."
"They may be mere strangers after all," said Constance; "but here they are; for I can hear the dull sound of their horses' feet upon the drawbridge."
Iola sprang up the steps again with a light step, and twined her arm in that of her cousin. Both movements were very natural. We always like to stand upon a height when we meet those of whom we have any fear or any doubt; and Iola felt the need of sympathy which the very touch of her cousin's arm afforded her. A pause followed, during which Constance sought to say something and to look unconcerned; but words she found not; and her eyes as well as Iola's remained fixed upon the door. At length it opened; and, preceded by one of the officers of the castle, but unannounced by him, two gentlemen entered with a quick step. One was instantly recognized by both the fair girls who stood in the oriel, as Sir Edward Hungerford. The other was a stranger to them both. He was a dark handsome-looking young man, of some two or three and twenty years of age, dressed in somewhat of a foreign fashion, which, had they been much acquainted with such matters, they would have perceived at once to be the mode of the Burgundian court; but Iola's eye rested not upon his dress. It was his face that she scanned; and Constance felt a sort of shudder pass over her cousin's frame, as she leaned upon her arm, which pained and grieved her much. She saw nothing disagreeable, nothing to dislike in the countenance or air of the stranger. His step was free and graceful, his carriage dignified and lordly, his look, though perhaps a little haughty, was open and frank. In fact he was a man well calculated to please a lady's eye; and again Constance said to herself--"There must be some other attachment."
The stranger came on at an equal pace with Sir Edward Hungerford; but it was the latter who first spoke.
"Permit me," he said, "dear ladies, to be lord of the ceremonies, and introduce to you both my noble friend Arthur, Lord Fulmer."
The other seemed not to hear what he said; but, mounting the steps into the oriel at once, he took Iola's hand, saying--
"This must be the Lady Iola."
With a cheek as pale as death, and an eye cold and fixed, but with a firm and unwavering tone, the fair girl answered--
"My name is Iola, my lord. This is my cousin Constance. We grieve that my uncle is not here to receive you fittingly."
"I bring you tidings of your uncle, dear lady," replied Fulmer, still addressing her alone. "A messenger reached me from him at an early hour this morning, telling me that he would be at Chidlow during the evening, with a gay train of guests, and bidding me ride on and have everything prepared for their reception. He spoke indeed of sending a servant forward himself. Has no one arrived?"
"No one, my lord," replied Iola, "at least no one that we have heard of. But, having lived long in close seclusion, we are, as it were, strangers in my uncle's house, without occupation or authority. I pray you use that which my uncle has given you, to order all that may be necessary. As for us, I think we will now retire."
"Nay, not so soon," exclaimed Fulmer, eagerly. "This is but a brief interview indeed."
Sir Edward Hungerford too, in sweet and persuasive tones, besought the two ladies not to leave them, but to stay and give their good advice, as to the delicate preparation of the castle for the expected guests; but Iola remained firm to her purpose; and Constance, when she saw that it would distress her to remain, joined her voice to her cousin's; and, leaving the two gentlemen in the hall, they retired to Iola's chamber.
With her arm through that of Constance, Iola walked slowly but firmly thither; and it was only as she approached the door that anything like agitation showed itself. Then, however, Constance felt her steps waver and her frame shake; and, when they had entered the room, Iola cast herself on her knees by the side of the bed, hid her face upon its coverings, and wept.
When Iola and her fair cousin were gone, Lord Fulmer gazed for a moment from the window, with a thoughtful and absent look; and then, descending the steps, walked once or twice up and down the hall. At length, turning to Sir Edward Hungerford, he exclaimed:
"She is beautiful, indeed! Is she not, Hungerford?"
"Yes, exceedingly," replied the young knight; "although, methinks, the upper lip might be a trifle longer; but you would think her fairer still if you beheld her as I first saw her, with a colour in her cheek, like that of the morning sky. Now, I know not why, she is as pale as one of those marble statues which we see at Rome."
"Emotion!" said Fulmer, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it was wrong to take her thus, by surprise. Come, Hungerford, let us give these orders with which I am charged;" and, advancing to the door, he called for the attendants.
The orders were not so difficult to give as to execute; for they implied immediate preparation for the accommodation of at least twenty honoured guests besides the usual inhabitants of the castle, together with all their attendants, and for a splendid repast, to be ready for supper at the unusually late hour of nine. Special directions were added, to prepare one of the numerous detached buildings, which were frequently to be found within the walls of the fortified houses of those days, for the reception of the Lord Chartley and his train; and a portion of the immense range of stabling, which lay, strange to say, immediately at the back of the chapel, was to be set apart exclusively for his horses. Sir Edward Hungerford listened in polite silence, till Fulmer had delivered himself of his commission to the chief officer of Lord Calverly's household; but he could not suffer the good man to depart, without putting in a word or two, as advice to the master cook, concerning the dressing of cygnets, and the absolute necessity of immediately seeking a young heron of last year, or at least a bittern, as heron poults were not to be obtained.
"Porpoises are hopeless," he said, "at this distance from the sea, and squirrels in the spring are lean and poor; but, I have known a large luce, quaintly stewed with lard, supply the place of the one, while a coney may do well instead of the other; only I fear me it is somewhat late in the year."
The major domo bowed reverently at this discourse; and, as soon as he was gone, Fulmer exclaimed: "Come, Hungerford, let us walk upon the battlements, this sunshiny afternoon. Perchance these two fair girls may come down to breathe the air."
"Stay," replied Sir Edward Hungerford. "I will go and put on my green and sable surcoat; if they see it, it may attract them."
"Pshaw!" cried Fulmer. "Do you think they are bulls, which, men say, will run after a piece of cloth of a particular colour?"
"Nay!" replied Hungerford, with perhaps a little spice of malice; "but this surcoat of mine is, point for point, the very model of Chartley's."
"What has Chartley to do with the matter?" demanded Fulmer, turning full upon him, with some surprise.
"It shall be on in a moment," replied Sir Edward, without answering his question. "I hate this orange tawny colour, though it be now worn by every one. It does not at all suit my complexion. 'Tis a sort of jealousy colour. I will no more on't;" and away he went.
Lord Fulmer paced up and down the hall. "Her greeting was mighty cold," he thought. "Well, perhaps 'twas natural; and yet 'twas less troubled than chilly. She seemed firm enough, but yet as icy as the grave. What can this man mean about Chartley? Nothing, nothing. He has no meaning in him. I wish her greeting had been somewhat warmer--and in his presence too. He smiled, when he talked of Chartley."
He had not time for any long meditations, for he was very soon rejoined by his friend, habited in the most extravagant extreme of the mode, with the sleeves of his surcoat actually trailing on the ground when not fixed back to his shoulders by small loops of gold cord, and ruby buttons. The two gentlemen then found their way to the battlements, and walked round nearly their whole extent; Hungerford looking up, from time to time, at the principal masses of the building, in the hopes of ascertaining, by seeing some sweet face at a window, in what part of the castle Constance and her cousin were lodged. He said no more upon the subject of Iola and Chartley; and Fulmer did not choose to inquire further, though, to say the truth, the mere casual words he had heard, implying in reality little or nothing, rested on his mind more than he wished. Wrapped up in the thoughts of his own glittering person, Sir Edward Hungerford walked on by his friend's side in silence, and might perhaps have said nothing more for the next half hour, if Fulmer had not begun the conversation himself. Of course, it was begun from a point quite different from that at which he proposed to arrive.
"This castle is pleasantly situated," he observed, "and commands all the country round."
"Good faith, I like your own better," answered Sir Edward Hungerford. "Sheltered as it is, by woods and higher hills than that on which it stands, you have no dread of north winds there. Here, let it blow from east, west, north or south, you meet with every gust of heaven that is going; and, unless a man's skin be as tough as a horse's hide, he will ruin his complexion in a fortnight."
"I like it better," said Fulmer. "I love to have a free sight round me, to look afar, and see what comes on every side, to catch the rays of the sun in their warmth, ay, and sometimes to give the sharp wind buffet for buffet. Were both mine, I should choose this for my residence."
"Well, it will soon be yours," answered Sir Edward Hungerford; "for, I suppose your marriage is to take place speedily, and this old lord cannot live long. He is worn out with wisdom. You can then inhabit which you like. Every man has his tastes, Fulmer. Some, as you know, delight in orange tawny. I abominate the hue. You dislike your own place, and prefer Chidlow; I the reverse. You, doubtless, judge Iola the most beautiful. I admire little Constance, with her thoughtful brow."
"Because you have no more thought yourself than would lie in the hem of a silk jerkin," replied Fulmer. "Yet, methinks she were too grave for you."
"Nay! She can be merry enough when she is with those who please her," replied Hungerford, with a self-satisfied nod of his head. "That pretty little mouth can dimple with smiles, I assure you."
"Why, how know you all this, Hungerford?" asked Fulmer, in as light a tone as he could assume. "You seem to be wondrous well acquainted with these ladies' characters."
"Ay, ay," replied Sir Edward, with a mysterious and yet laughing look. "Constance and I passed that self same evening side by side; and, in one evening, a man may learn and teach a great deal."
"What evening?--What do you mean?" demanded Fulmer, sharply; but his companion only laughed, replying:--
"Ha! ha! Now, I could make you jealous--but, hush! No more just now. Some one is coming; and look, here is a party riding up--there, over that hill, upon the Leicester road."
The person who approached along the battlements was Lord Calverly's master of the household, come for some explanation from the young lord, whom he knew right well; and, while he spoke with Fulmer, Sir Edward Hungerford threw himself into a graceful attitude by one of the embrasures, and fell into thought--ay, reader, even into thought; for he was somewhat different in reality from that which he has hitherto appeared to you. I have only depicted him in certain scenes, and recorded his sayings and doings therein; and, if you judge other men, in your actual commerce with the world, by such partial views, you will make a great mistake--unless indeed you possess that instinct, the gift of few, which enables some to pierce through all the various veils with which men cover themselves, and see their real characters at once in their nakedness. Notwithstanding all the trifling, and the foppery, and the folly of Sir Edward Hungerford, there was no lack of brain beneath that frivolous exterior. I do not mean to say that his apparent tastes and pursuits were altogether assumed. He had a real fondness for splendour and delicacy of dress, for refinements in cookery, and softness and smoothness of demeanour. He was inordinately vain too of his person; and these were certainly defects, ay, and defects of intellect; for they showed a misappreciation of the worth of things; but, if you set down every fop for a fool, you will commit an egregious error. Every man has his weak point, they say, and foppery is certainly a very great one; but there may be a many strong points behind, and such was the case with this young knight. He was a man of undoubted courage, notwithstanding all his care for his fine person; by no means eager in quarrel, who could hear a jest, or a taunt, or even a reproach, with great patience, provided it did not become an insult; but then no one was more ready with his sword. The man, in short, who wished to fight him, he was ever prepared to fight; but he never showed any of that assassin-like love of mere fighting, which has gained many a man, very unjustly, the reputation of great courage. Not, however, to make him appear better than he really was, I must say a few words more upon his character. Though he could think deeply, and sometimes well, upon any subject placed before him, yet he had no value whatever for the power of thought. His great fault was a miscomprehension of what is precious and what is valueless in man; and this affected his estimation of his own qualities as well as those of others. Whether from a strange but not unusual philosophy, he thought the trifles of every day life more important to man's happiness, from their frequent occurrence, than the weighty things of the heart and mind, or whether the mocking persiflage of the court in which he had been brought up, had sunk, as it were, into his spirit, and made him look upon all things equally as trifles, I cannot tell; but certainly he would have prided himself more upon the cut of a doublet, which would have secured a multitude of imitators, than upon the wisest saying he could have uttered, or upon the profoundest reflections that could have passed through his mind. But this philosophy, or whatever it was, had its dangers and its evils. He looked upon morals with the same distorted vision as upon all other matters; even laughed at restraints which other men held sacred, and regarded every course of conduct as perfectly indifferent, because all things were equally empty and idle. To the punctilios of honour, as to the ceremonies of religion, he submitted with a good grace, merely because it was not worth while to contest them; and, if he did not injure a friend, or betray a cause he had espoused, or violate his plighted word, it was merely--I will not say by accident--by some slight impression received in youth, which he would have scoffed at in his own mind, if any one attempted to erect it into a principle. He seldom argued indeed, and never combatted other men's opinions, because he thought it quite as well that they should have them as not; and the only thing he thought it worth while to reason upon for five minutes was the fashion of a point, or a cloak, the design of a piece of embroidery, or the composition of an essence. These matters indeed rose into some importance with him; but the cause was, that he had talked himself into a vanity upon the subject, and other men had given value to his decisions by following them as law.
He thought then, while his companion was engaged in conversation; and his mind rested naturally upon things which had just passed.
"How some men trouble themselves about vain fancies," he said to himself. "Here is this good friend of mine would soon be in a flame of jealousy, if he knew all; not considering how very foolish and unlike a gentleman it is to be jealous at all. It is quite a gone-by mode, a faded suit, since good King Edward's days, and is as bad as a pale yellow doublet with a crimson cloak. Yet this man would wear it, and make himself as ridiculous as a Turk, with fifty wives, and jealous of them all. It would be amusing enough to see him, with all the wonderful graces of such a condition, now writhing like a saltimbank, yet grinning all the while to hide his pangs--then with a moody air walking apart with crossed angry arms, and thundery brow, and now affecting the gay and jocular, and dealing blows right and left, under the colour of sportive playfulness, only waiting to cut some one's throat, till he got the proof positive, which never comes. But I will not do it. It is not worth the while. Trouble would grow out of it; and nothing on earth is worth trouble but a dish of lampreys or a pair of new-fashioned hosen.--They are coming on fast," he continued aloud, looking from the walls. "On my life I believe it is the old pompous lord coming at the full gallop as if he were following a falcon. Come, Fulmer, come; let us down to the gates. Here is that most honourable peer, Arnold Lord Calverly, with two or three score in company, riding as fast as if King Richard were behind him. Pray Heaven the good nobleman's horse stumble not, or what a squelch there will be."
Thus saying, he began to descend one of those little flights of steps, which, in castles such as that of Chidlow, led from the battlements into the court-yard. Fulmer followed with a quick step; but the words of Sir Edward Hungerford had already planted doubts and apprehensions, which were not easily to be removed.
"It was discreet, my lord, it was discreet," said Lord Calverly, as he walked up into the hall with Fulmer by his side; "and take my word for it, that discretion is a quality which every man should prize in a wife. She meant you no offence, depend upon it, but with maidenly modesty retired till she had the sanction of her guardian's presence."
"I made no complaint, my dear lord," replied Fulmer, for the first time aware that, in telling how soon Iola had left him, his tone had displayed some mortification; "I merely said that, after a moment's interview, the dear girl withdrew; and you may easily imagine that I should have better liked her stay."
"Nay, nay, not so," answered the old peer. "That is a boyish fancy. We should always prefer lengthened happiness to present pleasure. Now her retiring was a sign of that frame of mind which will be your best happiness hereafter, therefore you should have been well pleased."
Fulmer set his teeth tight together, bearing the lecture with impatience, to which he did not choose to give utterance; but the next moment the old lord continued, saying--
"Thanks for your diligence, my dear lord. I see the people are all in a bustle of preparation. My noble friend Lord Chartley will be here anon; for, good sooth, it gave me some trouble to outride him; and I would not have him find anything in disarray; for his own household, I am told, is the best ordered in England."
The words galled their auditor. He asked himself why it should be so; and he had nothing to reply; for the movements of the human heart, deep, subtle, and intricate, conceal themselves constantly more or less, not only from the eyes of the outward world, but from the sight of the mind, which is affected by their impulses. As the ship leaves no permanent trace in the ever closing waters, as the arrow marks not its path through the sky, so do feelings often pass through the human heart, leaving no trace of the way by which they came and went.
Fulmer could not prevent a frown from gathering on his brow; but, though marked by Sir Edward Hungerford, it passed unnoticed by old Lord Calverly, whose coming somewhat earlier than had been expected set the whole household of the castle in movement. Orders had to be given; rooms to be assigned; new preparations to be ordered; old preparations to be undone; servants, attendants, guests hurried here and there; and a great deal of bustle, and not a little confusion, prevailed, when, at length, Iola and Constance appeared in answer to a summons from their uncle. The former was still very pale; and the keen and marking eye of Fulmer detected--or he fancied that he detected--the trace of tears upon her beautiful cheek.
All passed unnoticed by her self-occupied uncle. He had not seen her for nearly two years, and he did not remark any change in her appearance. She might have been pale before, for aught he knew; and besides he was too busy to take any note of such trifling things as paleness or tears. He saluted both his nieces, and welcomed them to Chidlow in fewer words than was his wont; asked why their aunt, the abbess, had not come with them at his summons; but waited for no answer; and, committing them to the care of Lord Fulmer and Sir Edward Hungerford, with some gentlemen, of inferior fortune and station who had accompanied him from Leicester, he proceeded to reiterate orders given twice before, and confuse his servants with manifold directions, often somewhat contradictory.
Left in the hall with her cousin, and her uncle's guests, Iola felt some relief in the numbers who were present. Fulmer would fain have enacted the lover's part; nor was he indeed at all unfitted to do so; for his heart was naturally warm and impetuous, and Iola's beauty and grace might well have kindled the flame of love in a colder breast than his own. Strange human nature, too, would have it, that the doubts and apprehensions which had arisen in his mind should render him only the mere eager to overcome anything like coldness upon her part; and he strove, with soft speeches and low-toned words, to win her ear to himself alone.
The result was not favourable. Iola listened calmly, coldly, and ever replied aloud, in words which all the world might hear. She did so, not upon any plan or system indeed, but from the feelings which were busy in her own heart, and the impressions which his words produced. She was contrasting them all the time with those of Chartley; and to her mind, at least, the comparison was unfavourable. The frank gay manner, the lively half-careless answer, the want of all study and formality, the shining forth of a heart that, like a gay bird, seemed made captive in spite of itself, which had all pleased, excited, won her in Chartley, was not to be found in the conversation or demeanour of Lord Fulmer. Between her and him there were but few subjects in common; the only one, indeed, being that from which she shrunk away with apprehension. He could but have recourse to the common places of love and admiration; and they were not at all fitted to win her. It was his misfortune indeed, and not his fault; but yet we often aggravate our misfortunes by our faults; and so it was in some degree with Fulmer. He had dreamed bright dreams of their meeting; and, little knowing woman's heart, he had fancied that she would do the same, that she would look forward with the same hopes to their union, that her heart unwooed would spring to meet his; and he was disappointed, mortified, somewhat irritated, to find that it was not so.
Worse, in the end he showed such feelings in his manner, and by an impatient look and tone, caused Iola to shrink from him still more coldly.
It was just at that moment that old Lord Calverly returned, saying aloud--
"Our other guests are coming. They are just at the castle gates. Now, Constance," he continued, for his lordship would sometimes venture an insipid joke, "now, Constance, if you would win a rich and noble husband, put on your brightest smiles."
"Who may he be, my lord?" asked Constance, who as well as Iola was ignorant of the names of the persons expected.
"Nay, nay, you will see," said Lord Calverly. "Did not his young lordship tell you?"
"No, indeed!" answered Constance quietly; "but I can wait in patience, my good lord. Time brings all things to light."
Through the open windows came the clattering sound of horses' feet from the court-yard, and then of orders given and voices speaking. There is something very strange in our memory of sounds. How long, how clearly we remember, how definitely we can trace back those intangible footprints of things that we have loved or dreaded, on the pathway of the air. A tone which has once awakened strong emotions is never forgotten. Iola's heart thrilled as she heard those sounds from the court.
There was then a pause of a minute or two, during which no one spoke. Then came steps upon the short wide staircase; and then the door opened. Fulmer fixed his eyes upon Iola's face; but she remarked not that he did so; for her own look was bent forward upon the door. He saw a clear light rise up in her eyes, a soft warm glow spread itself over her cheek and forehead, a bright but very transient smile, extinguished as soon as lighted, beam upon her beautiful lips. The next instant she was calm and pale again; and, turning his head, he saw Chartley approaching.
The wound was given. His doubts, his apprehensions, his suspicions were confirmed. Yet there was nothing tangible; nothing that could justify him in saying a word, or acting in any way except as before. But that was the greater torture; and now he resolved to watch for some occasion to speak or do. In the mean time Chartley advanced rapidly, followed by good Sir William Arden. He was somewhat changed since Iola had seen him. He looked graver, sterner. His cheek had grown pale too. There were care and thought written on his brow.
"He has suffered also," thought Iola; and her heart sunk more than ever.
"Oh, would that I had told him all at once!" she said in her own heart. "Yet how could I do it? Alas, that I should make him unhappy too."
Chartley's manner however showed no agitation. He had been prepared by his conversation with Lord Calverly to meet those whom he found there; and, at once addressing the old nobleman, he said:
"I here redeem my parole, my good lord, and surrender myself to your ward, according to the king's will, and to my word given this morning when you left me."
Then turning to Iola, he took her hand with a frank but grave air, and bent his head over it, saying, "dear lady, I rejoice to see you once again, and trust that you have been well since the evening when we met."
With a degree of haste, which was the only sign of emotion he showed, he next saluted Constance, almost in the same words; but then, with a kindly and sincere tone, inquired after her aunt, the abbess, trusting that she had not suffered from the alarm and anxiety she must have felt on the night when he last saw her. He listened too attentively to Constance's reply; but he could not prevent his eyes from wandering for a moment back to the face of Iola; and then, with a sort of start, he turned away, looking round the circle, and exclaimed, "oh, Hungerford, I did not expect to meet you here. When you left me at Leicester, I thought you were bound for London, and believed you, even now, plunged in a sea of green Genoa velvet."
"Nay, you forget," replied Sir Edward Hungerford; "summer is coming on. No one could venture to wear velvet for the next eight months, except a lord mayor or an alderman."
"Faith, I know not much of such matters," answered Chartley; "but that is the most reasonable piece of tailorism I have heard, which gives us warm clothing for our winter wear and lighter garments for our summer use. However I thought you were in London."
"So had I been," answered the young knight; "but I was stopped by a delicate epistle from my friend Lord Fulmer, here, containing an invitation not to be refused."
"Let me make you acquainted, any good lords," said Lord Calverly, advancing between the two young noblemen, and presenting them to each other. Each bowed with a stiff and stately air; and Chartley paused for a moment, as if to see whether Fulmer would speak or not; but, finding him silent, he turned on his heel; and, seeing Sir William Arden talking bluffly to Iola, he took his place by the side of Constance, and once more spoke of the night of their meeting.
The entrance of the young nobleman and those who accompanied him had caused one of those pauses which are very common in--I might say peculiar to--English society. Amongst foreigners in general, a stranger can enter, glide in amongst the other guests, speak with those he knows, pass those who are strangers, and be introduced to this person or to that, without interrupting the occupations or amusements going on. If his rank be very high, or his character very distinguished, a slight murmur, a hardly perceptible movement, and a few seconds of observation, form all that is produced by his appearance; but here such is not the case; and, unless the conversation going forward be very entertaining indeed, or the amusement in progress very exciting, a long silence follows the introduction of any personage worthy of note, during which he is well aware that every body is observing and commenting upon him. Such had been in a great degree the case in the present instance. For the first five minutes, nobody had spoken but Chartley, Iola, Constance, their uncle, and Sir Edward Hungerford. But, at the end of that time, each of the many guests resumed his conversation with his neighbour; and Chartley had a better opportunity of saying a few words, which he did not wish heard, to Constance, while the busy buzz of tongues prevailed around.
"I am happy, dear lady," he said, as soon as he had made sure of the moment, "to see you looking so well. I wish I could say the same of your sweet cousin. She looks pale, anxious, and thoughtful."
He paused as if for an answer, but Constance merely replied, "she does not look well indeed."
"I fear," continued Chartley, "that terrible night she passed in the forest, with all the alarm that she must have felt, was too much for her fair and delicate frame. I did my best, believe me, to comfort and protect her; but my best was but little, and she must have suffered much."
"I do not think that had any effect," replied Constance. "Her health has ever been strong and unimpaired--" she stopped for an instant, fearful of being led on to say more than she intended, and then added; "but she certainly looks ill. She speaks, however, my lord, with great gratitude of the kindness which you showed her, on that terrible night, which I shall never think of without dread."
"Gratitude!" said Chartley, with a smile. "Kindness! Dear lady, she must have formed a very unfavourable opinion of mankind, if she thought there was any gentleman who would not do the same."
"But it may be done in very different ways, my noble lord," answered Constance; "and she assured me that you treated her as if you had been a brother."
Chartley murmured to himself in a low tone, "Would that I could have felt as one!" The sounds were hardly articulate; but they caught the ear of his companion, and the whole secret was revealed at once. She cast down her eyes in painful thought, from which she was roused the moment after by Chartley saying, almost in a whisper,
"Will you give her a message for me, dear lady? for I may never have the opportunity of saying what I wish myself."
"What is it, my lord?" demanded Constance, timidly, with a glow of agitation coming into her cheek.
"It is merely this," replied the young nobleman. "Tell her, that he for whom she risked so much--I mean the bishop of Ely--is safe in France. I have received intimation of the fact from a sure hand. Tell her so, and add that, if the deepest gratitude and the sincerest regard can compensate for what she underwent that night, she has them."
"I will," replied Constance. "I will repeat your words exactly. There can be no harm in that."
She laid some emphasis on the last words; and Chartley gazed in her face as if to learn the interpretation thereof, "There can, indeed, be no harm in that," he rejoined: "nor in telling her any thought of my mind towards her."
Constance was about to reply; but, looking up, she saw the eyes of her uncle fixed upon her, with a meaning smile upon his lip, as if he thought she had already made a conquest of Lord Chartley. The conversation between them then paused; and Lord Calverly, crossing to where they stood, proposed to lead the young nobleman, who was partly his guest, partly his prisoner, to the lodging which had been prepared for him, his friend Sir William Arden, and their attendants. Chartley followed in silence, and found everything done that it was possible to do to render his residence at Chidlow pleasant.
The old lord was all courtesy and kindness. In his usual pompous tone, he excused what he called the poverty of the furniture, though it was in reality of a very splendid description. He declared the bed was not half large enough, though it would have afforded room to turn in, to at least six well-grown persons. The plumes of feathers too, at the top of the posts, he declared were in a bad fashion, as well as the hangings of the bed, and the tapestry of the bedroom somewhat faded. The antechamber and the chamber adjoining were well enough, though somewhat confined, he said; but he excused their narrowness, on account of that part of the building being the most ancient of all, the tower having been built by William the Bastard.
"Our Norman ancestors," he said, "thought more of defence than convenience; but we have larger apartments in the main building, where Lord Chartley will always be received as an honoured guest. And now, my dear young lord," he continued, "though I grieve in some sort to be made, as it were, your jailer, yet in some sort I rejoice; for I can lighten your captivity, or, to call it by a better name, your wardship. I would fain have it as mild as may be, and, though I am responsible to the king for your person, yet I would only secure you by bolts and bars of words, and fetters of air. Give me your promise, as knight and nobleman, as you did this morning, that you will make no attempt to escape, and then roam whithersoever you will. I will set no spies upon you. You have then only to fancy yourself a guest in my poor mansion, and all the pangs of imprisonment are gone."
"A thousand thanks, my noble friend," replied Chartley. "My promise I freely give; but it were better for both you and me that your forbearance and my engagement should have a limit. Let it be from month to month. Thus, the first of every month I present myself as your prisoner, and then you can renew your kind permission if you please, or not."
"Agreed, agreed," cried Lord Calverly. "It is a marvellous good arrangement. The rooms of your friend, Sir William Arden, an exceedingly good and valiant knight, though somewhat more familiar with the battle field than with bower or hall, are immediately above you; the rooms of your own attendants below. The truckle beds in the antechamber are somewhat small, but will serve two of the knaves well enough. And now I leave you, with a warning that our repast will be upon the board within the hour.--Ha, here comes Sir William Arden across the court, conducted by my cousin John. I will tell him of our supper hour as we pass; but he does not spend much time on his apparel, I should think."
"Good faith, he is well apparelled in his own high qualities," replied Chartley, "however he be dressed. The wool of a sheep and the entrails of a silkworm make but a poor addition in my eyes to a man's own worth--but," he added, not willing that his bluff friend should be undervalued, even by one who esteemed wealth as a high quality, "the plainness of Arden's apparel is from choice and not necessity. Doubtless, you know, my lord, that in worldly wealth he is as well furnished as in qualities of heart."
"Nay, nay, I did not know it," said Lord Calverly, with a look of much interest. "I thought he was but one of the knights of your household."
"My mother's first cousin," replied Chartley, "which is the cause of his attachment to myself."
"Nay, nay, your own high merits," said Lord Calverly, with a sliding bow, and took his leave.
In a few minutes more, Sir William Arden entered Chartley's room, with a gay air.
"Well, boy," he exclaimed, "here you are a prisoner. Think yourself happy that you have not been gored by the boar's tusks. Good faith, he wounds deep where he strikes. That old fool, our host, has stopped me for five minutes in the court, with a panegyric on your merits, and looked much surprized when I told him the plain truth, to wit, that you are a foolish mad-headed boy, who will need fifty such hard lessons as you have received, before you get some grains of common sense beaten into you."
Arden threw himself on a seat in the window, as he spoke, and gazed out, little attending to Chartley's answer, which consisted but of some words of course. He remained silent, even for a minute or two after; but then, turning sharply round, he said--
"Tell me, Chartley, what has happened to that sweet girl, Iola? She that was bright is dull; she, who was gay, is sad; she, whose cheek was like the rose, is now like a lily bending amongst its green leaves, bowed down with drops of dew."
"Nay, I know not," answered Chartley, leaning his head upon his hand, and bending his eyes upon the table.
"Then, what's the matter with you, my lord?" rejoined Sir William Arden; "for yours is the same case as hers. You are sad where you were gay; you are stupid where you were sharp; you look like a pipped hen instead of a rosy bumpkin."
"Methinks my present situation were enough to account for all this," replied Chartley.
"Come, come. That will not do, my lord," answered his friend. "I have seen you in much worse plight, when we were taken by the brown fellows at Tripoli, and you were then as gay as a lark. Better you should have some one to consult with. Tell me in a word, then. Were you making love to this dear little lady, when you were out with her the whole night in the forest? It was a great temptation, truly. I was half inclined at supper to make an old fool of myself, and say sweet things to pretty Constance, just to console her for the empty babbling of Ned Hungerford."
Chartley still leaned his arm upon the table, and remained in thought. It was not a usual mood with him; for, generally, the first emotions of his heart soonest found utterance; but new passions will produce new conduct. For the first time in his life, he felt inclined to be angry at his acts being inquired into, even by a friend, for the purposes of friendship. But he felt that it was foolish and wrong; and, being a very imperfect creature, after a brief struggle, he went into quite the opposite extreme.
"You are too sharp a questioner, Arden," he said, with a laugh, which had somewhat of his old gaiety in it; "but I'll answer your question manfully. I do not think the name of love ever passed my lips during that whole night."
"Ay, ay," cried the bluff knight; "but talking of love is not making it."
"Perhaps not," answered Chartley; "but, if I did make it, it was without intention. One thing, however, I feel too well, that, if I did not make love, I learned to love; and that is much worse. But it were worse still, Arden, should I have taught her to love too."
"Why so?" asked Sir William Arden, with a start.
"And yet I cannot think it," said Chartley, pursuing his own course of thought. "No, no, God forbid! This paleness, this sadness, may have a thousand other causes."
"But how now? What's the matter?" asked Arden, again. "Why should you wish yourself unloved? Remember, young man, when once put on, you cannot strip off love like a soiled jerkin. The honest man and true seeks no love that he cannot wear for ever--at least, till the garment drops off of itself."
"You do not know. You do not understand," said Chartley, impatiently. "The lady is contracted, I tell you, to this Lord Fulmer--ay, contracted in infancy, by every tie but the mere last ceremony of the church."
"And did she not tell you?" demanded Arden. "That was wrong, very wrong."
"'Tis you who are wrong," replied Chartley. "Why should she tell me? How should she tell me, when I never spoke to her of love? What my manner said, I know not; but there was not one word uttered by me which could give her a plea for relating to me all her private history. I thought I should have plenty of opportunity of speaking boldly, at an after time; and, alarmed and agitated as she was, I would not for the world have said or done aught that could add to what she felt. Since then, I have learned that she was contracted, when a child, to this Lord Fulmer; but that, educated as he has been at the court of Burgundy, they have never met from infancy till now."
"Damnation!" cried Sir William Arden, striding up and down the room. "This is the most unpleasant thing I ever had to deal with! And you forced to live in the same house with him too. In fortune's name, what will you do, my dear boy?"
"As best I may," answered Chartley. "Perhaps 'twere as well, Arden, to resume the appearance, at least, of all my old light spirits. At the worst, she will then but tax me with levity; and, if the feelings she has taught me have been at all learned by herself, she will soon be brought to believe that I am unworthy, because careless, of her affections, and feel the less regret at the sacrifice she must make."
"Don't resume, or assume anything, my dear lord," answered Sir William Arden. "Be what you are, seem what you are at all times. Confound me all men that walk in vizards! The best result always comes of the most straightforward course. But I will go and change these travel-soiled garments, and think of it all while I am getting the dust out of my eyes.--By the Lord that lives," he continued, looking out at the window, "there comes the abbess of St. Clare into the court, with Heaven knows how many more people. The castle will be too full, and I shall have to share my room with her. Well, thank Heaven for all things. She is a merry little fat soul, and will help us to laugh care away."
Thus saying, he turned and left his friend, who was not ill-satisfied, on the whole, at having been forced into making a confidant of one, on whose honour, integrity, and good sense he could firmly rely.