"It is not love that steals the heart from love: 'Tis the hard world,
and its perplexing cares; Its petrifying selfishness, its pride, its
low ambition, and its paltry aims."
Caroline Bowles.
Lady Basset fulfilled her promise of writing to her brother, and sent
her own squire with the letter. It was uncertain where the Duke might
be, and consequently how long the journey might take. The messenger was
instructed to seek him first at Windsor, and to be guided in his further
movements by what he might hear there. No time was lost, for the squire
set out on his journey that very evening.
About the time of his departure, the Archbishop and Mr Altham held
their little conference. Regina was at work in the window-seat, by her
husband's contrivance. Theoretically, he took the popular view of the
condign inferiority of the female intellect; while practically he held
his Regina in the highest reverence, and never thought of committing
himself on any important subject without first ascertaining her opinion.
And the goldsmith's daughter deserved his esteem; for she possessed a
warm heart and a large reserve of quiet good sense. They were both
highly delighted to see that the Archbishop seemed inclined to show
kindness to the young cousin whose relationship he, at least, was not
too proud to acknowledge.
"Nor should he not be," said Regina, whose tiny bobbins were flying
about on her lace-cushion, too fast for the eye to follow. "Did we not
come, all, from von man and von woman? I tink Adam was not too proud to
speak to Abel: and if Cain would not talk, he was bad man, and we should
not take de pattern after de bad mans. Ach! if dere was none but good
mans and good womans, what better of a world it should be!"
Regina had too much tact and sense of propriety to thrust herself into
the conversation between the Archbishop and her husband; she sat
silently listening and working, and the sprigs of lace flowers grew
rapidly under her skilful fingers.
"I would fain speak with you, Mr Altham," said the Archbishop,
"touching the disposing of my cousin Amphillis. I cannot but feel that
the maid hath been somewhat wronged by her father's kin; and though,
thanks be to God, I never did her nor him any hurt, yet, being of his
kindred, I would desire you to suffer me a little to repair this wrong.
She seemeth me a good maid and a worthy, and well bred in courtesy;
wherefore, if my word might help her to secure a better settlement, I
would not it were lacking. I pray you, therefore, to count me as your
friend and hers, and tell me how you think to order her life. She hath,
I take it, none other guardian than you?"
"My Lord, your Grace doth us great honour. 'Tis true, the maid hath
none other guardian than I; and her mother was mine only sister, and I
held her dear: and seeing she had none other to give an helping hand, I
was in the mind to portion her with mine own daughters. I gave to the
two, and shall give to the other, five pound apiece to their marriages,
and likewise their wedding gear; and seeing she is a good, decent maid,
and a credit to her kin, I would do the same by Amphillis."
"Therein do you act full nobly, Master Altham," said the Archbishop; for
the sum named was a very handsome one for a girl in Mr Altham's station
of life at that time. Only a tradesman very well-to-do could have
afforded to portion his daughter so highly, with an amount equivalent in
the present day to about 80 pounds. "Go to, then: will you suffer me
that I endow my young kinswoman with the like sum, and likewise find her
in an horse for her riding?"
In days when public conveyances of all kinds were totally unknown, a
horse was almost a necessity, and only the very poor were without one at
least. The price of such a horse as would be considered fit for
Amphillis was about thirty shillings or two pounds. The offer of the
Archbishop therefore struck Mr Altham as a most generous one, and his
thanks were profuse accordingly.
"Have you taken any thought for her disposal?" inquired the prelate.
"No, in very deed," replied the worthy patty-maker, with some
hesitation. "There be nigh me divers youths of good conditions, that I
dare be bound should be fain to wed with a maid of good lineage and
decent 'haviour, with a pretty penny in her pocket; but I never brake my
mind to any, and--" here Mr Altham glanced at Regina, and received an
optic telegram across the bobbins--"if your Grace were pleased to think
of any that you had a favour for, I would not in no wise stand in the
way thereto."
"Methinks," said the Archbishop, "under your leave, worthy Master
Altham, my cousin might look somewhat higher. Truly, I mean not to cast
scorn on any good and honest man; we be all sons of Adam: but--in a
word, to speak out straightway, I have one in my mind that I reckon
should not make an ill husband for Amphillis, and this is Sir Godfrey
Foljambe his squire, Master Norman Hylton, that is of birth even with
her, and I believe a full worthy young man, and well bred. If it may
suit with your reckoning, what say you to breaking your mind to him
thereupon, and seeing if he be inclined to entertain the same?"
"My Lord," replied Master Altham, after exchanging another telegram with
his Mentor, "in good sooth, both Phyllis and I are much beholden unto
you, and I will full gladly so do."
"Yet, Master Altham, I would desire you to be satisfied touching this
young man's conditions, ere you do fix your mind upon him. I hear well
of him from all that do know him--indeed, I am myself acquaint with some
of his near kin--with twain of his uncles and a brother--yet I would
fain have you satisfied therewith no less than myself."
Optic telegrams would not answer this time, for Regina's eyes were not
lifted from the lace-cushion. Mr Altham hesitated a moment, murmured a
few words of thanks, and at last came out openly with--"What sayest,
sweetheart?"
"He will do," was Regina's answer. "He is good man. He have clear
eyes, he look you in de face; he pray in de chapel, and not run his eyes
all round; he laugh and chatter-patter not wid other damsels; he is sad,
courteous, and gent. He will do, husband."
Little idea had Amphillis that her future was being thus settled for her
downstairs, as she sat in the Countess's chamber, tending her sick lady.
The Countess was slowly sinking. Father Jordan thought she might live
perhaps for another month; it was only a question of time. Perrote said
that the soul was keeping the body alive. The old fiery flashes of
passion were never seen now; she showed a little occasional irritability
and petulance, but usually her mood was one of listless, languid
weariness, from which nothing aroused her, and in which nothing
interested her. The one burning, crying desire of her heart was to see
her son. She did not know of the fruitless application which had been
already made to him; still less of the renewed appeal, to which no
answer could be returned for some days at least. Her belief was that
Sir Godfrey would not permit any message to be sent, and that if he did,
King Edward would not allow the Duke, who was his vassal, to obey it.
To the least hint that the Duke might or could himself decline, she
refused to listen so decidedly that no one had the heart to repeat it.
More plaintive, day by day, grew the dying mother's yearning moans for
her best-loved child. In vain Perrote tried to assure her that human
love was inadequate to satisfy the cravings of her immortal soul; that
God had made her for Himself, and that only when it reached and touched
Him could the spirit which He had given find rest.
"I cannot hearken to thee, old woman," said the dying prisoner. "My
whole soul is set on my lad, and is bent to see him before I die. Let
God grant me that, and I will listen to Him after--I will love the good
God then. I cannot rest, I cannot rest without my lad!"
The days wore on, and the snows of February passed into the winds of
March. Lady Basset remained at Hazelwood, but her squire had not
returned. The Countess was very weak now.
The Archbishop of York had delayed his departure too. He would answer
for it, he said, both to his superior of Canterbury and to the King. In
his own heart he was not satisfied with the ministrations of kindly,
ignorant Father Jordan, who was very desirous to soothe the perturbed
soul of the Countess, and had not the least idea how to do it. He
thought he might yet be of service to the dying Princess.
Very cautiously Mr Altham ventured with some trepidation to sound
Norman Hylton as to his feelings towards Amphillis. Notwithstanding the
Archbishop's countenance and solid help, he was sorely afraid of being
snubbed and sat upon for his presumption. He was therefore
proportionately relieved when Norman assured him he wished no better
fate to overtake him, but that he was unable to see how he could
possibly afford to marry.
"Verily, Master Altham, I do you to wit, I have but five possessions--
myself, my raiment, mine harness [armour was termed harness up to the
seventeenth century], mine horse, and my book. Not a yard of land have
I, nor look to have: nor one penny in my plack, further than what I
earn. How then can I look to keep a wife? Well I wot that Mistress
Amphillis were fortune in herself to him that is so lucky as to win her;
but in good sooth, no such thing is there as luck, and I should say,
that hath so much favour of. God, seeing the wise man saith that `a
prudent wife is given properly of the Lord.' Yet I reckon that the
wisest in the world can scarce keep him warm of a winter day by lapping
him in his wisdom; and the fairest and sweetest lady shall lack somewhat
to eat beside her own sweetness. Could I see my way thereto, trust me,
I would not say you nay; but--"
"But how, Master Hylton, if she carried her pocket full of nobles?"
"Ah, then it were other matter. I would stand to it gladly if so were."
"Well, for how much look you? Amphillis should bring you a portion of
ten pound beside her wedding gear, and an horse."
"Say you so? Methinks we were made, then, could we win into some great
house to serve the lord and lady thereof."
"I cast no doubt, if he had the opportunity, my Lord's Grace of York
should help you at that pinch. He seems full ready to do his young
kinswoman all the good he may."
"May I but see my way afore me, Master Altham, nought should make me
gladder than to fulfil this your behest."
Mr Altham laid the case before the Archbishop.
"Tell Master Hylton he need give himself not so much thought thereon as
a bee should pack in his honey-bag," was the smiling reply. "I will
warrant, so soon as it is known in the Court that I lack place for a
newly-wedded cousin and her husband, there shall be so many warm nests
laid afore me, that I shall have but to pick and choose. If that be all
the bar to my cousin's wedding, I may bless it to-morrow."
It was evident that there was no other difficulty, from the glad light
in Norman Hylton's eyes when he was told the Archbishop's answer. The
matter was settled at once. Only one small item was left out,
considered of no moment--the bride-elect knew nothing about the
transaction. That was a pleasure to come. That it would, should,
might, or could, be anything but a pleasure, never occurred either to
the Archbishop or to Mr Altham. They would not have belonged to their
century if it had done so.
It was the afternoon of the ninth of March. No answer had been received
from the Duke, and Perrote had almost lost hope. The Countess
petulantly declined to allow any religious conversation in her chamber.
She was restless and evidently miserable, Perrote thought more so than
merely from the longing desire to see her son; but some strange and
unusual reserve seemed to have come over her. Physically, she sank day
by day: it would soon be hour by hour.
Amphillis was off duty for the moment, and had seated herself with her
work at the window of her own room, which looked into the outer court,
and over the walls towards Derby. She kept upstairs a good deal at this
time. There were several reasons for this. She wished to be close at
hand if her services were needed; she had no fancy for Agatha's rattle;
and--she had not asked herself why--she instinctively kept away from the
company of Norman Hylton. Amphillis was not one of those girls who wear
their hearts upon their sleeves; who exhibit their injuries, bodily or
mental, and chatter freely over them to every comer. Her instinct was
rather that of the wounded hart, to plunge into the deepest covert, away
from every eye but the Omniscient.
Mr and Mrs Altham had pursued their journey without any further
communication to Amphillis. It was Lady Foljambe's prerogative to make
this; indeed, a very humble apology had to be made to her for taking the
matter in any respect out of her hands. This was done by the
Archbishop, who took the whole blame upon himself, and managed the
delicate affair with so much grace, that Lady Foljambe not only forgave
the Althams, but positively felt herself flattered by his interference.
She would inform Amphillis, after the death of the Countess, how her
future had been arranged.
The maiden herself, in ignorance of all arrangements made or imagined,
was indulging in some rather despondent meditations. The state of the
Countess, whom she deeply pitied; the probably near parting from
Perrote, whom she had learned to love; and another probable parting of
which she would not let herself think, were enough to make her heart
sink. She would, of course, go back to her uncle, unless it pleased
Lady Foljambe to recommend (which meant to command) her to the service
of some other lady. And Amphillis was one of those shy, intense souls
for whom the thought of new faces and fresh scenes has in it more fear
than hope. She knew that there was just a possibility that Lady
Foljambe might put her into Ricarda's place, which she had not yet
filled up, three or four different negotiations to that end having
failed to effect it; and either this or a return to her uncle was the
secret hope of her heart. She highly respected and liked her new Aunt
Regina, and her Uncle Robert was the only one of her relatives on the
mother's side whom she loved at all. Yet the prospect of a return to
London was shadowed by the remembrance of Alexandra, who had ever been
to Amphillis a worry and a terror.
As Amphillis sat by the window, she now and then lifted her head to look
out for a moment; and she did so now, hearing the faint ring of a horn
in the distance. Her eyes lighted on a party of horsemen, who were
coming up the valley. They were too far away to discern details, but
she saw some distant flashes, as if something brilliant caught the
sunlight, and also, as she imagined, the folds of a banner floating.
Was it a party of visitors coming to the Manor, or, more likely, a group
of travellers on their way to Chesterfield from Derby? Or was it--oh,
was it possible!--the Duke of Bretagne?
Amphillis's embroidery dropped on the rushes at her feet, as she sprang
up and watched the progress of the travellers. She was pretty sure
presently that the banner was white, then that some of the travellers
were armed, then that they were making for Hazelwood, and at last that
the foremost knight of the group wore a helmet royally encircled. She
hardly dared to breathe when the banner at last showed its blazon as
pure ermine; and it scarcely needed the cry of "Notre Dame de Gwengamp!"
to make Amphillis rush to the opposite room, beckon Perrote out of it,
and say to her in breathless ecstasy--
"The Duke! O Mistress Perrote, the Lord Duke!"
"Is it so?" said Perrote, only a little less agitated than Amphillis.
"Is it surely he? may it not be a messenger only?"
"I think not so. There is an ermine pennon, and the foremost knight
hath a circlet on his helm."
"Pray God it so be! Phyllis, I will go down anon and see how matters
be. Go thou into our Lady's chamber--she slept but now--and if she
wake, mind thou say not a word to her hereupon. If it be in very deed
my Lord Duke, I will return with no delay."
"But if she ask?"
"Parry her inquirations as best thou mayest."
Amphillis knew in her heart that she was an exceedingly bad hand at that
business; but she was accustomed to do as she was told, and accordingly
she said no more. She was relieved to find the Countess asleep, the cry
for admission not having been loud enough to wake her. She sat down and
waited.
Perrote, meanwhile, had gone down into the hall, where Lady Foljambe sat
at work with Agatha. Sir Godfrey was seated before the fire, at which
he pointed a pair of very straight and very lengthy legs; his hands were
in his pockets, and his look conveyed neither contentment nor
benevolence. In a recess of the window sat young Matthew, whistling
softly to himself as he stroked a hawk upon his gloved wrist, while his
brother Godfrey stood at another window, looking out, with his arms upon
the sill. The only person who noticed Perrote's entrance was Agatha,
and she pulled a little face by way of relief to her feelings. Lady
Foljambe worked on in silence.
"Sir," said Perrote, addressing herself to the master of the house,
"Phyllis tells me a party be making hither, that she hath seen from the
window; and under your good pleasure, I reckon, from what the maid saw,
that it be my Lord's Grace of Bretagne and his meynie."
Sir Godfrey struggled to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. His
elder son turned round from the window; the younger said, "_Ha, jolife_!
Now, Gille, go on thy perch, sweet heart!" and set the falcon on its
perch. Agatha's work went down in a moment. Lady Foljambe alone seemed
insensible to the news. At the same moment, the great doors at the end
of the hall were flung open, and the seneschal, with a low bow to his
master and mistress, cried--
"Room for the Duke's Grace of Brittany!"
As the new arrivals entered the hall, Lady Basset came in from the
opposite end. The Duke, a fine, rather stern-looking man, strode
forward until he reached the dais where the family sat; and then,
doffing his crowned helmet, addressed himself to Sir Godfrey Foljambe.
"Sir, I give you good even. King Edward your Lord greets you by me, and
bids you give good heed to that which you shall find herein."
At a motion from the Duke, quick and peremptory, one of his knights
stepped forth and delivered the royal letter.
Sir Godfrey took it into his hands with a low reverence, and bade his
seneschal fetch Father Jordan, without whose assistance it was
impossible for him to ascertain his Sovereign's bidding.
Father Jordan hastened in, cut the silken string, and read the letter.
"Messire,--Our will and pleasure is, that you shall entertain in your
Manor of Hazelwood, for such time as shall be his pleasure, our very
dear and well-beloved son, John, Duke of Brittany and Count de Montfort,
neither letting nor deferring the said Duke from intercourse with our
prisoner his mother, Margaret, Duchess of Brittany, but shall suffer him
to speak with her at his will. And for so doing this shall be your
warrant. By the King. At our Castle of Winchester, the morrow of Saint
Romanus."
Lady Foljambe turned to the Duke and inquired when it would be his
pleasure to speak with the prisoner.
"When her physician counts it meet," said he, with a slight movement of
his shapely shoulders, which did not augur much gratification at the
prospect before him. "By my faith, had not King Edward my father
insisted thereon, then had I never come on so idle a journey. When I
looked every morrow for news from Bretagne, bidding me most likely
thither, to trot over half England for an old dame's diversion were
enough to try the patience of any knight on earth! I shall not tarry
long here, I do ensure you, his Highness' bidding fulfilled; and I trust
your physician shall not long tarry me."
Sir Godfrey and Lady Foljambe were full of expressions of sympathy.
Lady Basset came forward, and spoke in a slightly cynical tone.
"Good morrow, my Lord," said she to her brother. "You came not to see
me, I think, more in especial as I shall one of these days be an old
woman, when your Grace's regard for me shall perish. Father Jordan, I
pray you, let it not be long ere you give leave for this loving son to
have speech of his mother. 'Twere pity he should break his heart by
tarrying."
Father Jordan nervously intimated that if the Countess were not asleep,
he saw no reason why his Grace's visit should be delayed at all.
"Nay, but under your leave, my good host, I will eat first," said the
Duke; "were it but to strengthen me for the ordeal which waiteth me."
Lady Foljambe disappeared at once, on hospitable thoughts intent, and
Sir Godfrey was profuse in apologies that the suggestion should have
needed to come from the Duke. But the only person in the hall who,
except his sister, was not afraid of the Duke, stepped forth and spoke
her mind.