THE DEVOTEE IN THE CHAPEL OF THE DOMUS DEI.
Instead of proceeding to the Water-gate, near which a noisy throng was
still assembled, Philip and his conductor turned off on the left, with
the intention of making their exit from the town by the South-gate.
Passing through a Gothic archway, they entered a narrow sombre street,
or alley, with old monastic looking buildings on either side. In this
street stood, and still stands, the _Domus Dei_, or God’s House, a
hospital founded in the reign of Henry III. by two brothers, Gervase and
Protasius, merchants of Southampton, and dedicated by them to Saint
Julian, the patron of travellers. Connected with this hospital, ancient
even at the period of our history, was a beautiful little chapel, where,
as we have already mentioned, the three conspiring lords were buried
after their decapitation.
Vespers were being celebrated within the sacred pile as Philip and his
conductor passed it; perceiving which, the Prince determined to go in
and perform his devotions. Accordingly, they entered the little edifice.
Dimly lighted by the tapers burning at the altar, its massive round
pillars, semicircular arches, small windows, and deeply-recessed doorway
could only be imperfectly seen. Within the chancel, the arch of which
was of great beauty, three black marble flags told where the traitorous
nobles were laid. Here, also side by side, were recumbent statues of the
founders of the fane, sculptured in alabaster.
Except the officiating priest and his assistants, there were only two
female devotees in the chapel, both of whom were kneeling before the
altar.
Philip took a place near them. For some minutes he was so absorbed in
his devotions that he did not notice the person beside him, further than
remarking that she was young; but as he raised his eyes, he caught sight
of a face that at once riveted his attention. Never had he beheld
features so exquisitely beautiful, or so sweet in expression. No nun
could have a holier or purer look. A tender melancholy pervaded this
angelic countenance, adding an inexpressible charm to it. The face was
seen by the Prince in profile, but the attitude served to display the
classic regularity of the lineaments, the noble brow, white as marble,
the delicately-chiselled nose, the short upper lip, and rounded chin.
The complexion of the lovely devotee was of dazzling fairness, which
lent additional effect to her resplendent black eyes, her
finely-pencilled brows and dusky and luxuriant tresses. Her figure was
slender, and its perfect symmetry was defined by her black taffetas
dress. From her girdle hung a silver rosary. A small ruff encircled her
swan-like throat, and a velvet hood fastened to a coverchief lay at the
back of her head.
Totally unconscious of the effect produced by her charms, she pursued
her devotions, and it was only towards the close of the service, that
she became aware of the Prince’s propinquity, and of the ardent gaze he
fixed upon her. The discovery gave her evident annoyance. Whispering to
her attendant, she arose hastily, with the design of quitting the
chapel. She could not avoid Osbert, who was leaning against a pillar
directly in her way. Young Clinton had been as much struck by her beauty
as the Prince, and with looks betokening the extent of his admiration,
he bowed to her respectfully as she passed. Coldly returning the salute,
and drawing the hood over her head, she went forth, followed by her
attendant.
Philip did not move till the fair devotee had quitted the chapel. He
then arose, and with undisturbed gravity of deportment left the
building. As he issued into the street, which we have stated was dark
and narrow, the two females could nowhere be discerned. Yet, feeling
confident they must have proceeded towards the main street, he speeded
in that direction. Osbert went with him, but was not sorry to find, on
reaching the archway opening into English Street, that nothing was to be
seen of them.
“Whither can she have gone?” cried Philip, in a tone of fierce
disappointment; and then, without waiting for an answer, he added, “But
perhaps you know her.”
Osbert replied in the negative.
“I did not believe the world contained such a paragon,” cried Philip.
“But to lose her would be intolerable. Stay! the priest can tell us who
she is. Let us go back and question him.”
“Such a step would excite the holy man’s suspicions, and infallibly seal
his lips,” replied Osbert, “To-morrow I will obtain information for your
Highness.”
“But I must be satisfied to-night,” cried Philip. “I cannot rest till I
feel sure I shall behold her again.”
“She appears to have made a great impression upon your Highness,”
observed Osbert, in a tone that slightly evinced his dissatisfaction.
“More than I like to confess,” rejoined the Prince. “I am not accustomed
to be thwarted. I must find out who she is, and that without delay.”
“I see not how your desire can be gratified,” said Osbert. “We have lost
all traces of her for the moment.”
“You seem reluctant to do my bidding, Sir,” said Philip. “Are you
smitten with her yourself? Take heed! I will endure no rival.”
“Far be it from me to dream of rivalry with your Highness,” rejoined
Osbert. “I am ready to execute any orders you may deign to give me, but
I cannot blind myself to the risk of continuing this quest.”
“You are too young to talk of risk, Sir,” said Philip. “Difficulties and
dangers only add zest to an affair of this kind.”
“That would be quite true, were I alone concerned in it,” rejoined
Osbert. “But it is risk to your Highness, and not to myself that I
dread. You would not care to have it known that you have privily visited
Southampton to-night. Yet it may become so, without due caution. Even
now methinks, we are watched. Cast your eyes across the street, and
beneath the gate of yonder convent of Grey Friars you will perceive the
party of tipsy revellers from whom we have but just escaped. Unless I am
mistaken, they are playing the spy upon us.”
“By Heaven you are right!” cried Philip, looking in the direction
indicated, and remarking the group beneath the convent gate. “If we go
on, we shall have those fellows at our heels, or they will join us,
which will be worse.”
“Not a doubt of it,” replied Osbert. “And to speak truth, I am not
without uneasiness on another score. That sudden exclamation of a
passer-by would seem to indicate that you were recognised—perhaps by an
enemy. If I may be so bold, I would counsel your instant return to the
ship.”
“And leave this adventure unfinished!” exclaimed Philip. “It goes
against my inclination. ’Tis not the custom with us Spaniards to halt on
the threshold of a love affair. But I yield to the prudence of your
suggestion.”
“Heaven be thanked!” mentally ejaculated Osbert. “He shall never behold
her again, if I can help it.”
On this, they once more tracked the dark and narrow street. In another
moment they were near the little chapel, and Osbert would have hurried
on, but the Prince paused to consider the locality. Possibly the damsel
might be still thereabouts, or she might have entered the hospital which
adjoined the chapel, and indeed was connected with it. A lateral passage
led to a small quadrangular court, and down this passage Philip went,
hoping to make some discovery. Nor was he this time destined to
disappointment. On gaining the court, he found that the fair object of
his search was advancing towards him with her attendant. She had
evidently just left the hospital, as the door was being closed at the
moment by an ancient porter, carrying a lamp.
“At last I have found you, Madam!” exclaimed the Prince, springing
towards her. “I have looked for you everywhere in vain. But I thought
fortune would not present such a treasure to my view, only to rob me of
it instantly.”
“Let me pass, I entreat you, Sir,” cried the terrified maiden.
“Not till I have told you of the passion which your charms have inspired
in my breast,” pursued Philip, detaining her. “You must—you shall hear
me.”
“Not another word,” cried the damsel, haughtily; “I command you to let
me go. You will repent this rudeness. Know you whom you thus insult?”
“Pray Heaven she do not tell him who she is!” said Osbert, internally.
“I know you for the fairest creature I have ever beheld,” said Philip,
“and if I offend you by my speech, blame me not for it, but rather blame
your own charms, which compel me to give utterance to my feelings. Did I
but know your name, I would at once release you.”
“Then learn to your confusion, forward Sir,” interposed the old
attendant, “that my young lady is Mistress Constance, daughter of Master
Tyrrell, the rich merchant of English Street, whom you must know by
repute.”
“What! the Pearl of Southampton!” exclaimed the Prince. “By my faith,
the title is well bestowed. She does not belie her reputation.”
“Ay, the Pearl of Southampton,” cried the old woman. “And a pearl she
is, above all price, I can tell you, and not to be meddled with by
profane gallants like you, when she is engaged on works of charity.”
“What goodly work has your fair mistress been employed in?” inquired
Philip.
“In ministering to the sick within this hospital,” replied the old
woman. “But she is always occupied in good works, and hath no time for
idle vanities. You would do well to follow her example. When the Prince
of Spain arrived in the harbour this evening, and all the town flocked
to the quay to welcome him, what did my pious darling do but hie to yon
little chapel to return thanks to Heaven for giving him a safe voyage.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Philip. “The Prince ought to be much beholden to
her. I thank you in his name, Madam,” he added to Constance.
“You are a Spaniard, then, Sir?” said Constance, for the first time
raising her eyes towards him.
“One of his Highness’s suite,” replied Philip. “I am sure it will
delight the Prince that one so fair should take an interest in him. I
trust you will again remember him in your prayers.”
“I have prayed for him,” said Constance—“prayed that having arrived here
in safety, he may escape all danger from the disaffected—prayed that his
marriage with our Queen may be fraught with happiness to both of them,
and conduce to the welfare of the realm, and the benefit of religion.”
“I rejoice to hear such sentiments fall from your lips. I have heard few
like them since I landed. You wish well to the Prince of Spain?”
“I wish well to him because he is to be the Queen’s husband, and she has
no more loyal subject than myself. I could not wish him better than to
be the chosen spouse of so excellent a Princess.”
“He might be better pleased, Madam, if her Majesty resembled you,”
observed Philip.
“The Prince cannot be of your opinion, Sir,” returned Constance, “for I
hear he is singularly devout. He will require no other graces in her
Majesty save those of her mind and heart.”
“You have been rightly informed as to the Prince’s zeal in religious
matters, Madam,” said Philip. “He is as strict as you appear to be; but
he is by no means indifferent to beauty, and I am certain he could not
behold you unmoved.”
“You do him wrong, Sir,” said Constance. “The Queen must now exclusively
occupy his heart. A thought of any other would be sinful, and a pious
prince would never indulge such a thought.”
“A very pertinent remark. I trust he may profit by it,” muttered Osbert.
“The sin being involuntary, would lie lightly on his conscience,”
observed Philip. “But I must prevail on the Prince to mention your name
to the Queen. She ought to be made acquainted with your merits, and
might, possibly, find some place for you near her royal person.”
“I pray you, Sir, do not. I have no desire to emerge from my present
obscurity. But for my father, I should embrace the life of a cloister.
That is my real vocation.”
“It must not be, Madam!” exclaimed Osbert, unable to restrain himself.
“You would do a wrong to society to deprive it of its chief ornament.”
“You see, Madam, that this gentleman is as much opposed to the step as I
myself should be,” observed Philip. “You must not quit a world you are
so well calculated to adorn. No, no; you must be one of her Majesty’s
attendants—you must grace a court.”
“I grace a court!” exclaimed Constance. “I am not fit for it. But you
are mocking me, Sir.”
“By Saint Iago I am not!” cried Philip. “I was never more serious in my
life. I will prove to you I am in earnest——”
“Nay, I desire no such proof, Sir,” interrupted Constance, alarmed by
his impassioned tone. “I must go. Do not detain me. I have stayed too
long already discoursing with a stranger.”
“It will be your own fault if I continue a stranger to you, sweet
Constance,” said Philip. “Rather than you should doubt my sincerity, I
will declare myself.”
“Hold!” exclaimed Osbert. “Pardon me,” he added to the Prince; “I feel
it my duty to interpose.”
“It would avail me nothing to know your name and quality, Sir,” said
Constance. “Henceforth we must be entire strangers to each other.”
“Not so!—not so! sweet Constance!” cried the Prince. “Will you not
suffer me to attend you to your home?”
“I am too well known to need an escort,” she rejoined. “Nay, I am
peremptory,” she added, seeing the Prince meant to accompany her. “You
will not, I am sure, disoblige me. Come, Dorcas. Fare you well, Sir.”
“Adieu, sweet Constance!” exclaimed the Prince; adding, as she
disappeared with her attendant, “notwithstanding your interdiction, we
_shall_ meet again.”
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