Let us
Act freely, carelessly, and capriciously, as if our veins
Ran with quicksilver.--Ben Jonson.
Renown'd metropolis,
With glistening spires and pinnacles adorn'd.--Milton.
It is strange, in the life of man, always fluctuating as he is between
hope and fear, gratification and disappointment, with nothing fixed in
his state of existence, and uncertainty surrounding him on every side,
that suspense should be to him the most painful of all situations. One
would suppose that habit would have rendered it easy for him to bear;
and yet, beyond all questions, every condition of doubt, from
uncertainty respecting our fate, to mere indecision of judgment, are
all, more or less, painful in their degree. Who is it that has not
often felt irritated, vexed, and unhappy, when hesitating between two
different courses of action, even when the subject of deliberation
involved but a trifle?
Lady Katrine Bulmer, as has been already said, was grave and pensive
when she reached Gravesend; and then, without honouring the knight
with her company even for a few minutes, as he deemed that in simple
courtesy she might have done, she retired to her chamber, and,
shutting herself up with her two women, the only communication which
took place between her and Sir Osborne was respecting the hour of
their departure the next morning.
The knight felt hurt and vexed; for though he needed no ghost to tell
him that the lovely girl he was conducting to the court was as
capricious as she was beautiful, yet her gay whims and graceful little
coquetry, had both served to pique and amuse him, and he could almost
have been angry at this new caprice, which deprived him of her society
for the evening.
The next morning, however, the wind of Lady Katrine's humour seemed
again to have changed; and at the hour appointed for her departure she
tripped down to her horse all liveliness and gaiety. Sir Osborne
proffered to assist her in mounting, but in a moment she sprang into
the saddle without aid, and turned round laughing, to see the slow and
difficult man[oe]uvres by which her women were fixed in their seats.
The whole preparations, however, being completed, the cavalcade set
out in the same order in which it had departed from the abbey the day
before, and with the same number of persons; the poor priest whom they
had delivered from the hands of the rioters being left behind, too ill
to proceed with them to London.
"Well, sir knight," said the gay girl as they rode forward, "I must
really think of some guerdon to reward all your daring in my behalf. I
hope you watched through the livelong night, armed at all points, lest
some enemy should attack our castle?"
"Faith, not I!" answered Sir Osborne; "you seemed so perfectly
satisfied with the security of our lodging, lady, that I e'en followed
your good example and went to bed."
"Now he's affronted!" cried Lady Katrine. "Was there ever such a
creature? But tell me, man in armour, was it fitting for me to come
and sit with you and your horsemen in the tap-room of an inn, eating,
drinking, and singing, like a beggar or a ballad-singer?"
The knight bit his lip, and made no reply.
"Why don't you answer, Sir Osborne?" continued the lady, laughing.
"Merely because I have nothing to say," replied the knight, gravely;
"except that at Sittenbourne, where you did me the honour of eating
with me, though not with my horsemen, I did not perceive that
Lady Katrine Bulmer was, in any respect, either like a beggar or
ballad-singer."
"Oh! very well, sir knight; very well!" she said. "If you choose to be
offended I cannot help it."
"You mistake me, lady," said Sir Osborne, "I am not offended."
"Well then, sir, I am," replied Lady Katrine, making him a cold stiff
inclination of the head. "So we had better say no more upon the
subject."
At this moment Longpole, who with the rest of the attendants followed
at about fifty paces behind, rode forward, and put a small folded
paper into Sir Osborne's hands. "A letter, sir, which you dropped,"
said he aloud; "I picked it up this moment."
The knight looked at the address, and the small silken braid which
united the two seals; and finding that it was directed to Lord Darby
at York House, Westminster, was about to return it to Longpole, saying
it was none of his, when his eye fell upon Lady Katrine, whose head,
indeed, was turned away, but whose neck and ear were burning with so
deep a red, that Sir Osborne doubted not she had some deep and
blushing interest in the paper he held in his hand. "Thank you,
Longpole! thank you," he said, "I would not have lost it for a hundred
marks;" and he fastened it securely in the foldings of his scarf.
Though he could willingly have punished his fair companion for her
little capricious petulance, the knight could not bear to keep her in
the state of agitation under which, by the painful redness of her
cheek and the quivering of her hand on the bridle, he very evidently
saw she was suffering. "I think your ladyship was remarking," said he,
calmly, "that it was the height of dishonour and baseness to take
advantage of anything that happens to fall in our power, or any secret
with which we become acquainted accidentally. I not only agree with
you so far, but I think even that a jest upon such a subject is hardly
honourable. We should strive, if possible, to be as if we did not know
it."
Lady Katrine turned her full sunny face towards him, glowing like a
fair evening cloud when the last rays of daylight rest upon it: "You
are a good, an excellent creature," she said, "and worthy to be a
knight. Sir Osborne Maurice," she continued, after a moment's pause,
"your good opinion is too estimable to be lightly lost, and to
preserve it I must speak to you in a manner that women dare seldom
speak. And yet, though on my word, I would trust you as I would a
brother, I know not how----I cannot, indeed I cannot. And yet I must,
and will, for fear of misconstruction. You saw that letter. You can
guess that he to whom it is addressed is not indifferent to the
writer. They are affianced to each other by all vows, but those vows
are secret ones; for the all-powerful Wolsey will not have it so, and
we must needs seem, at least, to obey. Darby has been some time absent
from the court, and I was sent to the abbey. What would you have more?
I promised to give instant information of my return; and last night I
spent in writing that letter, though now I know not in truth how to
send it, for my groom is but a pensioned spy upon me."
"Will you trust it to me?" said the knight. The lady paused. "Do you
doubt me?" he asked.
"Not in the least," she said; "not in the least. My only doubt is
whether I shall send it at all."
"Is there a hesitation?" demanded the knight in some surprise.
"Alas! there is," answered she. "You must know all: I see it. Since I
have been at the abbey they have tried to persuade me that Darby
yields himself to the wishes of the cardinal; and is about to wed
another. I believe it false! I am sure it is false! And yet, and
yet----" and she burst into tears. "Oh, Sir Osborne!" she continued,
drying her eyes, "I much need such a friend as you described
yesterday."
"Let me be that friend, then, so far as I may be," said Sir Osborne.
"Allow me to carry the letter to London, whither I go after I have
left you at the court at Greenwich. I will ascertain how Lord Darby is
situated. If I find him faithful (which doubt not that he is, till you
hear more), I will give him the letter; otherwise I will return it
truly to you."
"But you must be quick," said Lady Katrine, "in case he should hear
that I have returned, and have not written. How will you ascertain?"
"There are many ways," answered the knight; "but principally by a
person whom I hope to find in London, and who sees more deeply into
the hidden truth than mortal eyes can usually do."
"Can you mean Sir Cesar?" demanded Lady Katrine.
"I do," answered the knight. "Do you know that very extraordinary
being?"
"I know him as every one knows him," answered Lady Katrine; "that is,
without knowing him. But if he be in London, and will give you the
information, all doubt will be at an end; for what he says is sure:
though, indeed, I often used to tease the queer little old man, by
pretending not to believe his prophecies, till our royal mistress,
whom God protect! has rated me for plaguing him. He was much a
favourite of hers, and I somewhat a favourite of his; for those odd
magical hop-o'-my-thumbs, I believe, love those best who cross them a
little. He gave me this large sapphire ring when he went away last
year, bidding me send it back to him if I were in trouble: quite
fairy-tale like. So now, Sir Osborne, you shall carry it to him, and
he will counsel you rightly. Put it in your cap, where he may see it.
There now! it looks quite like some lady's favour; but don't go and
tilt at every one who denies that Katrine Bulmer is the loveliest
creature under the sun."
"Nay, I must leave that to my Lord Darby," answered Sir Osborne.
"Now, that was meant maliciously!" cried Lady Katrine. "But I don't
care! Wait a little; and if there be a weak point in all your heart,
sir knight, I'll plague you for your sly look."
Lady Katrine Bulmer's spirits were of that elastic quality not easily
repressed; and before ten minutes were over, all her gaiety returned
in full force, nor did it cease its flow till their arrival in
Greenwich.
For his part, Sir Osborne strove to keep pace with her liveliness, and
perhaps even forced his wit a little in the race, that he might not be
behindhand. Heaven knows what was passing in his mind! whether it
really was an accession of gaiety at approaching the court, or whether
it was that he wished to show his fair companion that the discovery he
had made of her engagements to Lord Darby did not at all mortify him,
notwithstanding the little coquetry that she might have exercised upon
himself.
They now, however, approached the place of their destination, under
the favourable auspice of a fair afternoon. The most pardonable sort
of superstition is perhaps that which derives its auguries from the
face of nature, leading us to fancy that the bright golden sunshine,
the clear blue heaven, the soft summer breeze, and the cheerful song
of heaven's choristers, indicate approaching happiness to ourselves;
or that the cloud, the storm, and the tempest, come prophetic of evil
and desolation. At least both hope and fear, the two great movers in
all man's feelings, lend themselves strangely to this sort of
divination, combining with the beauty of the prospect, or the
brightness of the sky, to exalt our expectations of the future; or
lending darker terrors to the frown of nature, and teaching us to
dread or to despair.
When Sir Osborne and his party arrived at the brow of Shooter's Hill,
the evening was as fair and lovely as if it had been summer: one of
those sweet sunsets that sometimes burst in between two wintry days in
the end of March or the beginning of April: a sort of heralds to
announce the golden season that comes on. The whole country round, as
far as they could see, whether looking towards Eltham and Chiselhurst,
or northwards towards the river, was one wide sea of waving boughs,
just tinged with the first green of the spring; while the oblique rays
of the declining sun, falling upon the huge bolls of the old oaks and
beeches, caught upon the western side of each, and invested its giant
limbs as with a golden armour. Every here and there, too, the beams,
forcing their way through the various openings in the forest, cast
across the road bright glimpses of that rich yellow light peculiar to
wood scenery, and, alternated with the long shadows of the trees,
marked the far perspective of the highway descending to the wide heath
below. The eye rested not on the heath, though it, too, was glowing
with the full effulgence of the sky; but passing on, caught a small
part of the palace of Greenwich, rising above the wild oaks which
filled the park; and then still farther turning towards the west,
paused upon the vast metropolis, with its red and dizzy atmosphere,
high above which rose the heavy tower and wooden spire of Old Paul's
Church; while to the left, beyond the influence of the smoke, was seen
standing almost alone, in solemn majesty, the beautiful pile of the
West Minster.
Sir Osborne Maurice impulsively reined in his horse, and seemed as if
he could scarcely breathe when the whole magnificent scene rushed at
once upon his view. "So this is London!" cried he; "the vast, the
wealthy, and the great; the throne of our island monarchs, from whence
they sway a wide and powerful land. On! on!" and striking his horse
with his spurs, he darted down the road, as if he were afraid that the
great city would, before he reached it, fade away like the splendid
phantasms seen by the Sicilian shepherds, showing for a moment a host
of castles, and towers, and palaces, and then fleeting by, and leaving
nought but empty air!