There was a man walking in the woods, with a slight limp in his gait. He was coarsely but comfortably dressed, and had something very like a Cretan cap upon his head. His face was a merry face, well preserved in wine or some other strong liquor; and, from the leathern belt, which girt his brown coat close round his waist, stuck out, on the one side a long knife, and on the other the chanter of a bagpipe. The bag, alas, was gone.
He looked up at the blue clear sky. He looked up at the green leaves, just peering from the branches over his head; and, as he went, he sang; for his pipes had been spoiled by Catesby's soldiery, and his own throat was the only instrument of music left him.
SONG.Oh, merry spring, merry spring!With sunshine on thy back, and dew upon thy wingSweetest bird of all the year.How I love to see thee here.And thy choristers to hear,As they sing.Oh happy time, happy time!When buds of hawthorn burst, and honeysuckles climb,And the maidens of the May,Hear the sweet bells as they play.And make out what they sayIn their chime.Oh jolly hours, jolly hours!Of young and happy hearts, in gay and pleasant bowers,Could I my spring recall,I'd be merrier than all;But my year is in the fallOf the flowers.Still, I feel there comes a dayFar brighter, than e'er shone upon this round of clay,When life with swallow's wing.Shall find another spring,And my spirit yet shall sing.In the ray.
Oh, merry spring, merry spring!With sunshine on thy back, and dew upon thy wing
Sweetest bird of all the year.How I love to see thee here.And thy choristers to hear,
As they sing.
Oh happy time, happy time!When buds of hawthorn burst, and honeysuckles climb,
And the maidens of the May,Hear the sweet bells as they play.And make out what they say
In their chime.
Oh jolly hours, jolly hours!Of young and happy hearts, in gay and pleasant bowers,
Could I my spring recall,I'd be merrier than all;But my year is in the fall
Of the flowers.
Still, I feel there comes a dayFar brighter, than e'er shone upon this round of clay,
When life with swallow's wing.Shall find another spring,And my spirit yet shall sing.
In the ray.
Thus sang Sam the piper, as, with his rolling gait, but at a good pace, he walked on from the high road, running between Atherston and Hinckley, down the narrower walk of the forest, which led, past the cottage of the woodman, to the bank of the stream. His was a merry heart, which sought and found happiness wherever it could be met with, and bore misfortune or adversity as lightly as any heart that ever was created. Oh, blessed thing, that cheerfulness of disposition, which makes its own sunshine in this wintry world--blessed whencesoever it comes, but most blessed when it springs from a fountain of conscious rectitude, a calm unspotted memory, and a bright high hope!
I cannot say that this was exactly the case with our good friend Sam; but he had a wonderful faculty, notwithstanding, of forgetting past pains and shutting his eyes to coming dangers. His wants were so few, that he could entertain but small fear of their not being satisfied; and, though his desires were somewhat more extensive, yet the rims of a trencher and a pottle pot were sufficient to contain them. Apprehensions, he entertained none; cares he had long before cast to the winds; and by circumscribing his pleasures and his necessities, within the smallest possible limits, it was wonderful how easily he walked under the only pack he had to carry through the world. Other men's sorrows and misfortunes, the strife of nations, intestine wars, portents, or phenomena, acts of violence and crime, I may say, afforded him amusement, without at all impugning poor Sam's kindness of heart or goodness of disposition; for all I mean to say is, that they gave him something to gossip about. Now gossiping and singing were Sam's only amusements, since a brutal soldier had cut his bag in twain. Drinking was with him a necessary evil, which he got over as soon as possible, whenever he had the means.
He was now on his way from Hinckley, to disgorge upon the abbey miller, who lived near the bridge, all the budget of news he had collected at that little town, and other places during the last fortnight or three weeks. He would willingly have bestowed a part of the stock upon Boyd the woodman; but he did not venture even to think of doing so, inasmuch as Boyd had always affected to be as great an enemy to gossip as the miller was a friend.
The summer sunshine, however, coming a month or two before its time, had lured Boyd to his door; and there he sat, with a large strong knife in his hand, and sundry long poles of yew and other wood, fashioning arrows with the greatest possible skill. It was wonderful to behold how straight, and round, and even, he cut them without compass or rule, or any other implement but the knife. Then too, how neatly he adjusted the feathers to the shaft, from a bundle of grey goose quills that lay on his left hand. Heads indeed were wanting; but Boyd thought to himself, "I will bring six or eight score from Tamworth when next I go. At all events it is well to be prepared."
As he thus thought, the step of the piper, coming down the road, met his ear, and he looked up; but Sam would have passed him by with a mere "good morning," for he stood in some awe of Master Boyd, had not the woodman himself addressed him, in a tone that might be called almost kindly, saying:
"Well, Sam. How goes the world with you? You have got a new coat and hosen, I see."
"Ay, thanks to the young lord's gold pieces," answered Sam. "He paid well and honestly; and I took a mighty resolution, and spent it on my back rather than on my belly."
"Ay, some grace left!" exclaimed Boyd. "But what has happened to thy pipes, man? They used always to be under thine elbow, and not stuck into thy belt."
"Those rascal troopers slit my bag," answered the piper; "and I shall have to travel through three counties ere I get another. I lost a silver groat, I am sure, by the want of it this very morning; for there was a bright company at Hinckley, and some of them speaking the Scottish tongue. Now every Scot loves the bagpipe."
"But not such pipes as yours," answered Boyd. "Theirs are of a different make. But who were these people, did you hear?"
"Nay, I asked no names," replied Sam; "for Scots do not like to be questioned. But there was a fair lady with them--very fair and very beautiful still, though the spring tide of her life had gone by--and the people called her Highness."
The woodman mused, and then inquired: "Were they all Scottish people?"
"Nay, some were English," answered Sam, "gallants of the king's court, I judge, and speaking as good English as you or I do. But there were Scottish persons of quality too, besides the lady who was so, I am sure--for what English princess should she be?"
"And were they all so gaily dressed then?" asked Boyd, in the same musing tone.
"Some were, and some were not," replied the piper; "but the lady herself was plainest of them all, more like a nun than a princess. But you can see them with your own eyes if you like; for they will pass by in half an hour, if they keep to the time at which they said they would set out. They are going to offer at St. Clare; and you may plant yourself at the gate, or under a tree by the roadside, and they will all pass you like a show."
"I will," replied the woodman; and, rising from his seat, he put his hat, which had been lying beside him, on his head, and was striding away, when suddenly, seeming to recollect himself, he turned back, saying to the piper, "I dare say thou art thirsty and hungry too, Sam. Come in with me, and thou shalt have a draught of ale, and a hunch of ewe-milk cheese."
It was an invitation not to be refused by the piper, to whom meat and drink rarely came amiss. He accordingly followed, and received what was proffered gratefully. The woodman waited not to hear his thanks, but, having seen him drink a moderate quart of ale, sent him away with well nigh half a loaf of brown bread and a lump of cheese as large as his two fists. Then, leaving his huge dog to watch the house, he, himself, took his departure, and walked with a rapid pace to the road which the piper had mentioned. There he stationed himself under the very tree by which he had been standing on a night eventful to him, when he had slain one of the king's couriers or posts. One would have thought the memory must have been painful; but it seemed to affect him not in the least. He stood and gazed upon the very spot where the man had fallen; and, had there not been rain since then, the blood would have been still upon the stones; but, if there was any change in his countenance at all, it was merely that his brow somewhat relaxed, and a faint smile came upon his lip. "It was the hand of justice," he said to himself. "Yet 'tis strange there has been no inquiry. I went in and touched the body; but it did not bleed. The inanimate corpse recognised the hand of the avenger, and refused to accuse."[4]
He waited for some time, every now and then looking up the road, and sometimes bending his head to listen. At length he caught the sound of horses' feet coming at a slow pace, and making but little noise; for, as I have said elsewhere, the road was sandy. He then looked up the hill, and saw, coming slowly down, in no very regular order, a party of from twenty to five and twenty persons, male and female. Without waiting for anything but the first casual glance, he withdrew a little further from the road, amongst the high bushes which skirted the forest all round, intermingled with a few taller trees. There, where he could see without being seen, he paused, and crossed his arms upon his chest, looking intently through an aperture in the young green leaves, which afforded a good view of a considerable part of the road. At the end of some three or four minutes after he had taken his station, the cavalcade began to appear. It was headed by a lady on a fine grey horse, which she managed well and gracefully. The description given of her appearance by the wandering musician was quite correct, so far as it went. She was very beautiful, and her skin, most delicately fair and soft, without a wrinkle. Her hair, braided across the forehead, in a mode not usual in England, seemed once to have been nut brown, but was now somewhat streaked with grey. Her figure too was exceedingly fine, though not above the middle height; but it had lost the great delicacy of youth, and assumed the beauties of a more mature age. Her dress was exceedingly plain, consisting of a grey riding-gown, cape, and hood, which had fallen back upon her shoulders; but there was an air of graceful dignity in her whole figure which was not to be mistaken. The expression of her countenance was dignified also; but it was exceedingly grave--grave even to melancholy.
A number of much gayer-looking personages succeeded, and some of their dresses were exceedingly beautiful and even splendid; but the eye of the woodman--as that of most other people would have done--fixed upon that lady alone, was never removed from her for an instant, and followed her down the road till the trees shut her from his sight. Then, after pausing for a moment or two, with his gaze firmly fixed upon the ground, he cast himself down in the long grass, and buried his face in his hands.
The hall was as light as day; for Lord Calverly was fond of a glare. The feast was as delicate as he could have desired, and even the critical taste of Sir Edward Hungerford found nothing to criticise. The arrangement of the guests, however, was not altogether that which best suited their several inclinations. There were many, with whom we have little or nothing to do, who might, or might not, be placed as they would have placed themselves; but, certainly, with regard to Iola and Chartley, such was not the case; for she was seated between her uncle and Lord Fulmer, while Chartley was at some distance from her, on the opposite side of the table. Let the mind say what it would, the heart told her she would rather have had him near. Her ear thirsted for the tones of his voice, and her eye wandered for a moment, from time to time, to his face, with a glance withdrawn as soon as given, but with an impulse she could not controul. She was very young, and very inexperienced, and some excuse must be made for her. She wished to do all that was right, to avoid all that was wrong; but the heart was rebellious, and would have its own way.
Constance, too, could have wished something changed in her position. Sir William Arden, it is true, had contrived to place himself on her left; and with that part of the arrangement she was very well satisfied; but Sir Edward Hungerford occupied the other side, and there was hardly any one in all the hall whom she would not have preferred.
"Be merry, be merry, my friends," said excellent Lord Calverly, who perceived that, for some reason or another, his guests were not as cheerful as they might have been. "Let us all be gay; for in these troublous times, when one sits down to the merry evening meal, with friendly faces round us, it is never possible to tell when we shall all meet again."
"By St. Paul, that's a topic well calculated to promote hilarity!" said Sir William Arden in a low voice to Constance; "and, to say truth, dear lady, the castle hall does not seem to me so gay a place as the abbey refectory."
"I begin to think," said Constance, "that the calm shade of the cloister may, upon the whole, contain more cheerfulness than the laughter-loving world."
"Pooh! We must not let you think so," said Sir William Arden. "Cannot Sir Edward Hungerford persuade you of the contrary? He has been trying, I think."
He spoke in a whisper, and his words produced a slight smile, but no blush, upon Constance's face, and her only reply was:
"Hush, hush!"
"Nay, then, if he can't succeed, I must try," continued Sir William; "though, to say truth, it would be somewhat like an old suit of armour dancing a quick step. But why should you not be happy in the world, as well as your fair cousin?"
"Is she happy?" asked Constance, with a sigh.
"Ay, that is a question, in regard to which I have some doubt," answered the good knight; "but, no more at present; the popinjay is turning round. Now, I'll warrant, he has discussed the whole question of the superiority of cendel over laid silk, with that pretty little thing on his right, who seems to have as many ideas as he has; and, I will answer for it, half an hour's talk would make them both bankrupt, so that they have stopped payment for lack of coin."
"It is marvellous hot to-night, sweet lady Constance," said Sir Edward turning towards her. "My cheek burns, till I am sure I must be rosy as a country justice's serving-man."
"Better that than white and yellow, like a lump of tallow," replied Sir William Arden, across her. "These people, with their delicate complexions, drive me mad, as if they thought a man, to be a courtier, should look like a whey-faced girl, just emptied from the nursery. And then they must blush too, and find the air oppressive; but there is one way of banishing the red rose from your cheek. Faint, Hungerford, faint outright! Then you'll be as pale as usual."
"Did'st thou ever hear, fair lady, such a blustering old son of Mars as this?" demanded Sir Edward Hungerford. "He thinks no one can fight but himself, unless he be full of big oaths, with a face like ebony, and a skin like a rhinoceros."
"Nay, I know thou can'st fight, Hungerford, like a man," answered Sir William Arden. "More shame for thee to talk like a woman, and dress like a mountebank. If thou didst take as much care of thy pretty person in the field, as thou dost in the hall, thou wouldst be a worse soldier than thou art."
"Gallantly said!" replied the other knight; and, turning again to Constance, he continued the conversation with her, saying: "He is not bad at main, this worthy man. Though, to hear him talk, we might suppose him one of the devils; but it is all talk, dear lady. He is at heart as gentle as a lamb, except when he is in the field; and then, of course, he fights for company; but, polish is impossible with him. His mother forgot to lick him when he was young, I suppose; and so we have the bear in his native state."
Sir William Arden laughed, though he was the object of the sarcasm; and, looking round at Constance, he said:
"It is all quite true, lady, as true as what I said of him. We are famous for drawing each other's characters. So now, you have heard us described each by the other, say which you like best."
"Good, mighty good!" exclaimed Hungerford. "That is an offer of his hand and heart."
"Well, so be it," answered Sir William Arden, with a laugh. "That is something solid at all events. He can offer nothing but a shadow in a slashed doublet, a mere voice and a walking suit of clothes. Echo is nothing to him, in respect of thinness; and I should fear his undergoing Narcissus' fate, but that he loves himself better than even Narcissus, and would not part with his own pretty person for anything else whatsoever, be it substance or shadow. He will never pine himself either into a flower or a water-course, as those young gentlemen and ladies did in days of old."
"I should be a great fool if I did," replied Hungerford; "but if you were to begin to melt, Arden, all the world would thaw; for it is difficult to say whether your head or your heart is the hardest."
"Why, gentlemen, you are using very bitter words," said the pretty lady, on the other side of Sir Edward Hungerford. "Really I must appeal to my good Lord Calverly."
"Nay, rather let me appeal to you," said Hungerford, in a tender tone; and thenceforth he continued to talk with her till the supper was over, which was all she wanted.
"That shaft is shot," said Arden, resuming the conversation with Constance, but speaking in a lower tone than before. "You asked but now, 'Is she happy?' and, good faith, she does not look like it. Her lips have hardly moved since we sat down to the board; but methinks that question might be put of every one round. It is not the gay smile, or the cheerful laugh, that shows a happy heart within; and I doubt much, if you could see into every bosom along these two ranks of human things, whether you would not find some hidden care, or some sorrow that flies the light."
"That is to say," replied Constance, "that every one who mingles with the world finds unhappiness in it; a fine argument to keep me out of a convent, truly. Either your gallantry or your wit halts, Sir William; for, to my knowledge, there is many a happy heart beats in the cloister."
"Are there no masks there?" asked the stout knight. "If not, there are veils, fair Constance; and, take my word for it, sooner or later, there come regrets and repinings, longings to see the world that has been renounced, and pluck some of the fruit of the pleasant tree of knowledge, that bitter sweet, the pleasant berries of which tempt the eye from afar, although there is now no serpent hid amongst the foliage."
"But look at my good aunt, the abbess," answered the young lady. "She has none of these regrets and repinings that you mention. She is always merry, cheerful, contented."
"Ay, but hers is a case by itself," answered Arden. "She can get out when she likes; and a good creature she is. Her life is as easy as a widow's. No, no. Take my advice, and think not of a convent."
"Why, what would you have me do in the wide world?" asked Constance, half gaily, half sadly.
"Why, marry to be sure," replied the good knight, "and have a score of cherub babes, to cheer you with their pleasant faces. Let me tell you, it is like having heaven round your knees, and you are not a whit the less likely in the end to reach the heaven overhead."
"But suppose no one would have me," answered Constance, with a smile.
"Try all the young fellows first, and then try me," answered Sir William, bluffly, but with a light laugh at the same time, which softened the point of his words; and Constance answered--
"No, no. A woman can try no one. I must be wooed and won."
"On my life, if I thought you could," murmured Arden to himself, "I think I would try;" but the words did not reach Constance's ear; and, after a short pause of thought, the old knight said abruptly, "I don't like your fair cousin's looks."
"And yet they are fair looks too," answered Constance.
"Ay, so are my cousin Chartley's," said the knight; "but I don't like his looks either."
"They are gay enough, surely," replied Constance. "See, he is laughing even now."
"Did you ever see a will-o'-the-wisp?" asked Sir William.
"Yes," said Constance. "What of that?"
"They flit over deep morasses and dangerous spots," answered the knight. "Don't you let Chartley's laugh mislead you. See how he holds his head in the air, with his nostril spread, and his lip curling. Be sure, when he laughs with such a look as that, there is something very bitter at his heart."
"But they say he is half a prisoner here," rejoined Constance. "That is enough to make him sad."
"Would that were all," replied Arden; "but let us talk no more of him. It is your fair cousin I am thinking of. When she sat opposite to me at the abbey, a week or two ago, her eyes were like stars that glistened up instead of down. Her brow was smooth and clear. Her lip played in smiles with every thought. I would fain know what it is has clouded that ivory brow, what it is weighs down that rosy arch, and sinks the sweeping eye-lashes to her cheek."
"I cannot tell," answered Constance, with a little mental reservation; "but I suppose great changes coming, when they are foreseen, will make the heart somewhat pensive."
"Pensive, but not sorrowful," answered Arden. "Well, well," he added, "I see your uncle moving in his seat, as if we should not be long side by side. Let me see--when you were a little smiling child, just toddling about your nurse's knee, I was in arms, dealing hard blows in more than one stricken field. There is a mighty difference between our ages, some four and twenty years perhaps--Nay, do not be afraid. I am not going to ask you--but, methinks, a young thing like you may place some confidence in a man old enough to be your father; and all I can say is if you, or your fair cousin, need counsel of a head that has had some experience, or help from an arm none of the weakest, you may rely upon a heart which has been ever believed true to friend and foe, to man or woman. There, my dear child, I have said my say. It is for you to act upon it, as you think fit."
Sunk almost to a whisper with much emotion, the voice of Constance answered--
"I thank you deeply;" and the next moment, according to a bad custom, even then prevalent, the ladies of the party rose, and left the gentlemen to pursue their revel unchecked.
We must go back a little, however; for during the meal we have followed only one little group at that long table. What was the conduct, what were the thoughts of Lord Fulmer, while all this was passing? He sat beside Iola in anguish, the anguish of doubt and jealousy; and, conscious that his mood was not fitted to win or please, he struggled with it sorely. He determined to use every effort, both to conquer himself, and to gain her love; but it is difficult to conquer an enemy without when there is an enemy within; and the very effort embarrassed him. If he sat silent for a minute or two, he was revolving what he should say. When he did speak, it was not the tone or the words of the heart which came forth; the whole was studied; the effort was too evident. He felt it, yet could not help it; and Iola's reply did not generally aid or encourage him. It was courteous but cold, civil but not kind--very brief too; and the moment it was uttered, she fell into thought again. It was clear there was a struggle in her mind, as well as his, and the only difference was, that she did not strive to conceal it. He was angry with her and with himself; with her, because she did not put on at least the semblance of regard she did not feel; with himself, because he knew that his own want of self-command was every moment betraying the interests of a passion which was growing upon him more and more, even under doubt and disappointment. Still he struggled, still he strove to please, or, at least, to amuse; but it was in vain. His words were cold and formal, and Iola was grave, absent, thoughtful, so that no conversation lasted more than a minute. At length he gave it up. He struggled no more. He yielded to the feelings within; but they impelled him in a very different course from that of Iola. She saw, heard, marked, very little of what passed at the table. Buried in her own thoughts, she only roused herself from time to time, to reply to her uncle, who sat at her side, or to answer the abbess, who was placed opposite, or to give a momentary timid look towards the face of Chartley.
Fulmer, on the contrary, was full of eager observation, quickened by the passions in his heart. "I will know all," he thought. "I will force Hungerford to tell me all--ay, this very night. I cannot live in this torture any longer? and if I find it as I think, that man shall answer me with his heart's best blood. What right had he to win the affections of my contracted wife. He must have known that she was so. Every one knew it; but I will be satisfied. Hungerford shall explain his words before he lays his head upon his pillow."
He could not be content to wait for that explanation, however; and, as I have said, he watched, in order to ascertain, as far as possible, how far the evil, which he suspected, had gone. Three times he saw the eyes of Iola raised for an instant to Chartley's face, and then as speedily withdrawn. Oh, what would he have given, in some mysterious glass, to have seen a picture of the emotions which were passing in her breast. The first time she looked at him, her colour was heightened the moment she withdrew her eyes. He could not tell why, and he puzzled himself to divine the cause. Was it that Chartley was talking with another, and that his tone was gay? Or was it that she found the eyes of the abbess upon her, and, blushed from consciousness. The second time she looked that way, a slight passing smile followed--the mere shadow of a smile. Was it that Chartley, fallen into a fit of absence, committed some strange error, which made those around him laugh. The next glance she gave left her in deeper thought than ever; and to him her eyes seemed to swim in bright dew; but she dropped the deep veil of long silken lashes over the glistening drop, and it was hidden.
In the mean time, what marked he in Chartley's conduct? It was the same in some respects as Iola's, but different in others. He often looked to the spot where she was seated; but it was in a calmer, firmer, less timid manner. Once or twice his gaze was earnest, intent, full of deep thought. There was no levity in it, none of the confidence of knowing that he was loved. It was a look of almost painful interest, deep, tender, grave; and once he fixed his eyes upon Fulmer himself, and gazed at him long, notwithstanding an angry expression which came upon the young lord's face. Busied altogether with what was passing in his own mind, Chartley saw not that irritable look, never fancied that it was called up by his own. He scanned every feature of his face, as if he were scrutinizing some inanimate object which could not perceive or comprehend the examination it was undergoing. And yet that gaze almost drove Fulmer mad; and even the way in which it was withdrawn, the fit of thought which succeeded, and then the start, and the resumption of conversation with those around, all irritated the young man more.
Fortunately, some time elapsed before the gentlemen there present were left without the restraint of ladies' presence; for Fulmer had time to recover himself; and, though still highly irritated, to recollect what was due to Iola, to himself, and to his entertainer. He resolved to bridle his passion, and to guide it; and, could he have kept the resolutions which he formed--he did not, as the reader will see--though not altogether good ones, they were much better than the wild impulses of passion.
"There must be no quarrelabout her," he thought. "I must not mingle her name is our enmity--I have no right to do that. 'Tis easy to provoke him upon some other subject; nor will I too hastily do that, for the good old lord's sake. I will irritate him by degrees, till the actual offence comes from him; and then to justify myself with my sword is a right. I can do it with all courtesy too, and I will."
If man's resolutions are generally rendered vain and fruitless, by the force of circumstances, when they affect things over which he has no control, it is sad to think that they should be so often rendered ineffectual, by passions, when they refer only to his own conduct, over which he should have the mastery. So, however, it is often--almost always--I had well nigh said, ever. It was not otherwise with Fulmer. His resolutions passed away, under the heat of his temper, like the shadowy clouds of morning. Ere five minutes were over, he was in full career to irritate, if not to insult, Chartley. His resolutions to be courteous, to be moderate, were forgotten, and his tone was very offensive.
But the calm indifference of manner on Chartley's part, while it provoked him, frustrated his purpose. His rival, for as such he now fully looked upon him, heard any words he addressed to him calmly, replied to them briefly, and then seemed to withdraw his thoughts from him altogether. It was impossible to engage him in any irritating conversation, his answers were so short, so tranquil, so conclusive; and Fulmer, driven at length to seek more plain and open means of offence, began to touch upon the cause of Chartley's having fallen under the king's displeasure, thinking that thus, at least, he should draw him forth from his reserve. But here old Lord Calverly at once interposed.
"Nay, nay, my noble friend," he said. "These are subjects that are never spoken of, except when they are matters of mere business; but methinks it is time to seek repose. My noble Lord Chartley, I will once more conduct you to your lodging. After to-night, you will be able, methinks, to find your way yourself;" and he at once rose from the table.
Each of the guests retired to his chamber; but, for some little time, there was a considerable degree of bustle and movement in the castle, pages and servants hurrying to and fro in attendance upon their masters, and serving men clearing away the dishes from the hall, while scullions scraped the trenchers, and the pantry-men cleaned out the cups. Such operations however were not long in the performance; and gradually the whole building resumed its quiet. A light might be seen in a window here and there; and a lamp, which burned all night long in the high tower, served as a sort of beacon to any traveller wandering in the darkness, showing him afar where Chidlow castle stood. The battlements all around were dark and solitary; for there were very strict laws at that time in force, against collecting what might be considered a garrison, in the fortified houses of the nobility, or maintaining, except in a few special cases, watch and ward within the old baronial castles. The policy of Richard, indeed, seems to have been somewhat similar to that which was pursued in France, nearly two centuries later, by the famous Cardinal de Richelieu; and he evidently aimed at breaking down the feudal power, which had often rendered the great barons such formidable enemies of the crown. He lived not long enough, indeed, to carry out his object, or to enforce his laws; but still the proclamation was in force against giving badges and liveries to retainers, or, in other words, against maintaining a regular armed force, arrayed and organised under certain symbols, and independent of the crown. This law, it is true, was openly violated by many. Every great house in the land was filled with armed men; badges were retained, and displayed, in various instances; and many a castle was as strictly guarded as if it had been a royal fortress. But all who sought favour or courtly advancement were scrupulous to observe the king's will; and, as Lord Calverly was one of these, all outward signs of military precaution had been given up. The chief cannonier had become the master porter; and the warders were now called porter's men. The great gates, however, were still closed, bolted, and locked, the drawbridge raised, and the portcullis let down at the hour of ten; and the posterns were shut an hour earlier; but, in every other respect, defensive measures, and, above all, military display, were abandoned, and an appearance of security was assumed, which, in truth, no one felt in England during the short reign of Richard III.
All then was tranquil and quiet in Chidlow castle by half an hour before midnight; and, although it was evident that some were still watchers within its walls and towers, yet the greater part of the guests were sound asleep, and almost all the others preparing for repose.
At about a quarter to twelve, however, Lord Fulmer, with a lamp in his hand, issued forth from his sleeping-chamber, and walked along the exceedingly narrow passage into which it opened. Our ancestors of that age, and of the ages before them, were not very careful to provide broad corridors or staircases for their guests. The greater and the lesser halls, the gallery, if a castle had one, several nameless chambers--which were frequently to be found in what poetically would be called the lady's bower, but which about that time was more generally denominated the lady's lodging--and, in short, all rooms of state were spacious and magnificent enough; but many of the bed-rooms were exceedingly small; and, where they were on a larger scale, for the reception of more distinguished guests, the neighbouring passages were curtailed in proportion.
Along this passage then walked the young nobleman, with a slow and thoughtful step. He had had time for meditation, and passion had somewhat cooled down. His irritation had taken a more gloomy and stern character, but it was not the less persisting. "I will know all," he thought, "and then judge and act."
Turning sharply to the right, at the end of the first ten or fifteen yards, he entered and crossed a large sort of vestibule, occupying one half of the space in one of the flanking towers.
It had two windows in it, through one of which the moon was shining brightly, marking the stone floor with the chequered shadows of the leaden frame-work. He passed on, however, and then, turning to his left, paused and opened a door, which admitted him to a little ante-room. Two or three small beds were ranged around, of that kind called by the French "lit de sangle;" but they were not occupied, for their intended tenants, consisting of a page and two ordinary attendants, were seated at a little table in the middle of the room, gambling with dice. They all started up, however, when the young nobleman entered; and, in answer to his question, whether Sir Edward had retired to sleep, replied:--
"Oh, dear no, my lord. He will not go to bed for some time;" and the page, stepping forward, opened the door of the inner chamber, saying aloud, "Lord Fulmer, sir."
On advancing into the room, while the boy held back the tapestry, Fulmer found Sir Edward Hungerford, with another person, standing before a table, on which was spread out a large piece of violet-coloured satin, whereunto were being applied, by the inferior personage, an enormous pair of shears. The entrance of the young nobleman made them both start; and the first exclamation of Sir Edward was, "My God, you've cut it askew. Heaven and earth, what shall we do now? There will never be enough in that corner to purfle the sleeves."
"I beg your worship's pardon," replied the other, without taking any more notice of Lord Fulmer than his master had done. "There will be quite enough. If I cut it slant so, from the corner to the middle, it will just leave what is needful for the bands."
"I want to speak with you, Hungerford," said the young nobleman. "I pray you, send this fellow away."
"Wait a moment, wait a moment," replied the knight. "This is the most important thing in life. You can't imagine what trouble it has given us to devise.--Now, cut away, Master Graine, and let me see how you will manage it?"
"Oh, quite easily," answered the other; and, delicately using his shears, he cut the satin straight across, and then divided one part of it into two, from which he again pared two long strips, pointing to the whole in triumph, and saying, "There, worshipful sir, I told you--"
"Yes, yes, I see, I see," said Hungerford, in a meditative tone. "It is a great question settled. Now, take them away; and, remember, I shall want it by to-morrow night."
The man bowed and withdrew; and then, for the first time, Sir Edward turned to Lord Fulmer, and invited him to be seated, saying, "That was a momentous business, Fulmer; and your imprudent entrance so suddenly had well nigh spoiled all."
"I did not know that you were engaged upon matters of life and death," replied Fulmer, bitterly, lifting up the tapestry at the same time, to see that the tailor had closed the door behind him.
"I have somewhat of less importance to say," he then continued, seating himself, "but still of some moment to me."
"What is it, my dear lord?" asked Hungerford, taking a chair opposite. "I can conceive nothing very important, when compared with the cutting out of a surcoat. However, I have seen that you have been uneasy--or to speak more accurately, nearly as hot in your skin as a poor devil of a lollard, whom I once beheld, when I was a boy, burned in a pitch barrel. He looked just as uncomfortable as you did at supper, when one could get a sight of his face through the flames. I wish you could bear as easy a mind as I do, and see the little value of things that men make themselves uncomfortable about--and angry about into the bargain, it would seem."
"Nay, I am not in the least angry," replied Fulmer, who believed he was speaking truth. "I merely want to hear some simple facts to which you alluded somewhat mysteriously this morning. Marriage, you know, Hungerford," he continued, affecting a light and jesting tone, the better to conceal the bitter feelings within, "marriage, you know, is a matter of destiny; but, when a man is about to unite his fate to a fair lady, it is quite as well that he should be made aware of all previous passages, in order that he may take his measures accordingly."
"Upon my word, I disagree with you," answered Hungerford, with a smile. "No man should ever do anything that can make him uneasy. Calm and perfect indifference to all things in life is the only means of obtaining that greatest blessing in life--tranquillity. If we have a stock of enthusiasm, which must be spent upon something, it is much better to spend it upon what you call trifles, because, if any misadventure happens, the evil is easily repaired. Now, if when you came in just now, you had made Master Graine irremediably damage that piece of satin, which I should have considered the greatest misfortune in the world, I could send a man on horseback to London or York, to get me another piece, and thus the evil is cured. But, if a man cuts another man's throat, or makes his wife hate him by black looks and cold words, he cannot give his friend a new throat, or send to York for a new love."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Fulmer, sharply. "I wish to Heaven you would be serious but for a moment."
"I am perfectly serious," replied Hungerford. "The only question is, which is the best philosophy, yours or mine? However, each man knows his own nature. What do you wish to ask me?"
"Simply this," answered Fulmer. "What is the previous acquaintance to which you alluded with a sneer, this morning, between my contracted wife, the Lady Iola St. Leger, and that very noble and excellent gentleman, the Lord Chartley?"
"With a sneer, my dear lord!" exclaimed Hungerford. "See what it is to be of an imaginative disposition. I sneered not at all."
"Then the simple question," rejoined Fulmer, restraining his feelings with a great effort, "what know you of their acquaintance?"
"Mighty little, my good lord," replied Sir Edward Hungerford, who was, to say the truth, a little amused by the eager impetuosity of his companion, and somewhat inclined to spur him on, merely for the joke's sake; but, knowing that the affair might have very serious consequences, he kept to the strict truth, and even within it, though he could not refrain from playing a little with Fulmer's impatience. "Be it known unto you then," he continued, "that somewhere about a fortnight ago--let me see. It was on Monday----"
"The date matters little," said Fulmer, moodily. "All I want are the facts."
"Well, about a fortnight ago, then," continued Hungerford, "as I was riding from London, I chanced to stumble upon my good friend Lord Chartley, at the little inn at Kimbolton. The whole place was occupied by himself and his people; but he kindly made room for me, and gave me an excellent good supper, prepared by his own cook. The snipes were excellent; and there was an alaud of salmon, I never tasted anything better--"
"Well, well, what then?" said Fulmer, quickly.
"Why, I thought him too good a companion to be parted with easily," said Hungerford. "So we passed the evening in talking of Bohemia, where we had last met, and drawing savoury comparisons between the cookery of that rude land and good old England. Finding we were travelling the same way, I joined myself to his train, which was discreet and well ordered, having a friar to bless the meat, and a cook to cook it. Good faith, it was a pleasant journey; and I put myself in mind of the gentleman who gave crumbs to Lazarus; for I took care to be dressed in purple and fine linen, and with him I fared sumptuously every day. At length, one evening, after having dallied away some time at Tamworth, we stopped to sup at the abbey of St. Clare--an abbey of nuns, you know--"
"Yes, yes. I know all about it," replied Fulmer. "Go on."
"I had no inclination to go on, when I was there, I can assure you, my good lord," said Hungerford, laughing; "for right happily did the merry little abbess entertain us, and not only supped with us herself, in the strangers' refectory, but brought a prioress as deaf as a post, and the two pretty cousins, her nieces, Iola and Constance. The Lady Iola sat next to my noble friend; and, as a courteous gentleman, he did his best to entertain her, and, to my thinking, succeeded. I could have made up my mind to lodge there for the night; but Chartley was peremptory to go forward to Hinckley. So, after supper, we rode on. The friar, indeed, remained behind, pretending to be sick; and, when we had got some two miles through the wood, Chartley suddenly perceived--how, I know not, for it was dark enough amongst the trees--that some one had left the train. It turned out to be one of Sir Charles Weinant's men; for that smooth gentleman was with us--playing the traitor, if I mistake not. However, Chartley set spurs to his horse to catch the deserter, telling us to ride on, and he would overtake us. We good people did as he bade; but we got to Hinckley before him, and were roused early the next morning from our beds, by news that his lordship was in danger, and needed our instant help. Arden was in the saddle in a moment; and away we went pell mell, getting what intelligence we could, till we came to the wood which covers the hills over the abbey. There we found the whole place full of soldiers, searching a bit of the forest ground, for whom or what we could not learn; and, at length, riding round between the wood and the abbey, we found Chartley, his tawny Moor, and half a dozen woodmen, keeping a pass between two banks against Catesby, and a good number of the king's soldiers."
He paused, and rubbed his temple, till Lord Fulmer exclaimed:--
"Well, what then?"
"Why, that is all I know, of my own knowledge," answered Hungerford, "except that Chartley's coat seemed somewhat worse for a night's lodging in the forest."
"There is something more, Sir Edward Hungerford," said Fulmer, in a low, stern, bitter tone. "I must know it."
"Perhaps it is better to tell the rest," said the knight; "although, you must remember, my good lord, that I now speak only what I have gathered from other people's conversation. Of course, Chartley had not planted himself there, and embroiled himself with the king's troops, for nothing; and I made out, that his resistance was offered to cover the retreat of a lady into the convent. She had, by some chance, been out in the wood at night, and was cut off by the soldiers, who were searching, it seems, for good old Doctor Morton, the bishop of Ely. Chartley had met with her, and gallantly escorted her through the midst of the men; but, to do him all justice, he spoke of her with knightly reverence; and moreover, I should have told you before, that this friar of his, who, as I said blessed the meat, was none other than the good bishop himself, in effecting whose escape Chartley had the principal share. Thus, he had a personal interest in the whole matter."
Fulmer pressed his hand upon his brow, and murmured: "Alone with him in the wood all night!"
"Nay, nay, my good lord, do not so disturb yourself," said Hungerford. "Chartley is a man of very peculiar notions, and doubtless----"
"Pshaw!" said Lord Fulmer. "I do not disturb myself in the least, Doubtless, he is full of courtesy, and a man of high honour--All night in the wood with him!--I will go out upon the ramparts and walk. The moon is shining clear."
"You had better keep out of the moonlight, my good lord," said Hungerford, carelessly. "Stay, I will throw on a hood and come with you."
"I would rather be alone," answered Lord Fulmer; and, taking up his lamp, he left the room.
Hurrying along the narrow passage, he soon reached that large open sort of vestibule, which I have mentioned, in one of the square flanking towers; and there he paused, and stood for a moment or two with his eyes fixed upon the ground in deep thought. After a while, a sound, as of voices singing, came upon his ear. At first it did not wake him from his reverie; but gradually it seemed to steal upon his senses and call his thoughts, at least in some degree, from that which had previously occupied them. There were seats on either side; and, setting down the lamp on one of them, he opened the window which looked to the south west, and through which the moonlight was streaming. The music then became more distinct, though it evidently proceeded from a great distance. It was calm, and sweet, and solemn; a strain of exquisite melody, not so rich and full in the harmony, indeed, as the anthems or masses of the Roman church, but yet apparently of a religious character. It seemed a hymn; and, after listening for a moment, Fulmer said:--
"This is strange! What can it mean? I will go forth and listen. It seems to come from the wood, there. I shall hear better on the battlements."
Descending the narrow winding staircase, which terminated the passage about ten yards beyond the door of his own apartments, he entered the inner court, and thence, through a tall archway, reached the outer court, beyond which lay the ramparts. Then ascending by the steps to the top of the wall, he walked round, till he had reached a spot exactly below the window in the square tower. The music, however, had ceased; and he listened for some minutes in vain, though he thought he heard a murmur of many voices speaking or reading altogether.
The momentary excitement of curiosity passed away; and, sitting down upon a stone bench placed for the warders' temporary repose, ha leaned his arm upon the battlement, and returned to his dark thoughts. Still, the calm and solemn scene around, the grey landscape lying stretched out afar in the moonlight, the waving lines of hill and dale faintly traced in the dim obscurity, the light mist lying in the hollows, a bright gleaming line in the distance where the rays fell upon some sheet of water, the tall dark towers of the castle rising by his side, the blue sky overhead, flooded in the south west with silver radiance, and in the north and east speckled with gemlike stars, the motionless air, the profound silence, seemed to calm and still his angry feelings, if not to soften or remove them. There are things in life, which, like frost, harden while they tranquillize. Such was not altogether the case with him, but still the root of bitterness was in his heart.
He paused and thought; but, before many minutes had passed, the music burst forth again, rising and falling in solemn swell and cadence, evidently many voices singing some holy song. It came from far; no articulate sounds reached his ear; but music is a language--a language understood by the whole earth--speaking grand truths to the heart; wordless, but more eloquent than all words. If he was not softened before, he was softened now; if his spirit before had been tied down to earthly passions, it was now, for a time at least, elevated, above himself.
I have said "for a time;" for Richard had described him rightly. He was a man of varying moods, naturally generous, high-minded, kind, but subject to all the impulses of the clay, and in whom there was an everlasting warfare between the mortal and immortal. He thought of Iola, and her beauty, and the dreams which in his imaginative heart he had dreamed of her; and still that wild and thrilling strain sounded in his ears amidst the solemn scene, raising his feelings up, above selfishness, and worldly lessons, to generous feelings and noble aspirations. He thought what a grand though melancholy joy it would be to give her happiness even by the sacrifice of his own. Something of pride might mingle with it too; for, in the picture of the mind, Iola was seen confessing that she had misunderstood him, and admiring where she could not love; but still it was not a low pride; and he felt more satisfied, more at peace with himself. His eyes wandered over the space before him, and he recollected how he had seen it that very day, as he rode towards the castle, lighted up with sunshine, bursting forth into green life, and full of the song of birds. Now it was all grey and still, with no sounds, but that faint echo-like hymn, pouring on the air like the dirge of departed hopes. It seemed a picture of his own fate, so lately lighted up with bright expectations, and now all dark and cold.
Suddenly, on the green slope beyond the walls, he saw a figure--a woman's figure, clad in white. With a quiet gliding motion, it walked quickly on; and, ere he had recovered from his surprise, it had disappeared amongst the first trees at the nearest angle of the wood. He thought it looked like Iola, that its movements were like hers, so easy, so effortless, so graceful. He turned towards the place where he knew her chamber was, and gazed up. There was a light still burning there, and, as he gazed, a female figure passed across the window.