Would I a house for happiness erect,
Nature alone should be the architect.--Cowley.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay.--Donne.
We must now pass over a brief space of time with but little
commemoration.
It was a bright and beautiful morning in the beginning of the month of
May, when the sky was of that soft, tender blue which it possesses in
the early year, ere the ardent rays of summer have dyed it with a
deeper tint; and yet there was nothing of that misty faintness of hue
which foretels that the blue eye of heaven may be filled with tears
before nightfall. It was clear, though it was soft; and the light
white clouds that, winged by the breeze, sped quickly over the wide
expanse, gave to the earth no trace of their passing, except the
fleeting shadows that followed them, which, hurrying rapidly over the
distant fields and woods, made each spot as they left it look brighter
than before. Every object that met the eye spoke of spring. The bright
green of the trees, and the fields, and the woods, clearly told that
they had not known the burning touch of summer, which, like manhood
and the world's experience, coming o'er the fresh dreams of youth,
withers while it ripens, and with its very first approach steals
somewhat of the refreshing hue of early nature. The wild singing of
the birds, rejoicing in the return of brightness to the earth, and
making the whole air vocal with the bursting happiness of their
renewed enjoyment; the busy hum of animated being rising up from hill,
and dale, and wood, and joining with their song upon the breeze; all
spoke of refreshed existence. Flowers painted the fields, and blossoms
hung upon the trees, and perfume shook its light wings in the morning
air and sprinkled it with balm.
It was one of those mornings when the heart opens, and when every vein
thrills with glad existence; when we feel, as it were, the Deity on
the morning's breath; when we hear Him in the voice of creation; when
we worship Him in his works, and adore Him in the temple He himself
has raised. The scene, too, was lovely. It was in a wide open park,
where the rich thick grass spread like velvet over every slope and
lawn; so rich, so thick, its elasticity almost raised the foot that
trod it. On its luxuriant bosom the wide old trees, scattered in
clumps, or gathered together in broad sweeping woods, cast a deep
shadow, defined and clear, making the glossy softness and the vivid
green shine out more strongly for the contrast. It was the elm and the
oak that principally tenanted that park, though occasionally a
hawthorn or a beech would interpose; and wherever they congregated in
a wood there was to be found every sort of shrub and brushwood
clinging round their roots. Many a glade, however, appeared, and many
a lawn between; and where the trees broke away, there a wide extended
view presented itself, showing a rich and fertile country beyond, full
of green hedgerows and fields, broken and diversified by the lines of
hamlets and villages, mingling an air of wealth, prosperity, and
living gladness, with the bright sweetness of the morning and the calm
tranquillity of the park itself.
At the foot, then, of one of the old oaks in Richmond Park sat Lady
Constance de Grey, while her woman Margaret stood at a little distance
with a page, and Sir Osborne Maurice leaned by her side. They had met
by chance--really by chance--at that early hour in that remote part of
the park; though it is more than probable that the same thoughts,
acting on hearts so nearly allied, had led them both forth to meditate
on their fate. And even after they had met, the stillness of the scene
seemed to have found its way to their souls, for they remained almost
in silence watching the clouds and gazing at the view, content to feel
that they enjoyed together the same sweet morning and the same lovely
scene.
It may be as well, however, before proceeding further, to give some
slight sketch of what had occurred since the close of the last
chapter; though were we to account for every day, it would be but
detail of just after just, tourney after tourney, revel upon revel,
wearisome from their repetition, and sickening from their vain
splendour. Suffice it that Sir Osborne still maintained his place in
the king's favour. His lance was always held by the judges of the
field as next to the king's: his grace in the hall, or at the court,
his dexterity in martial exercises, his clerkly learning, and his
lighter accomplishments, won him much admiration; while a sort of
unassumingness, which seemed to hold his own high qualities as light,
silenced much envy. In short, it became the fashion to praise him; and
it is so easy for courtiers to applaud or to decry, as the veering
breath of favour changes, that to believe the outward semblance, Sir
Osborne Maurice, next to the king himself, and Charles Brandon Duke of
Suffolk, was the god of the court's idolatry.
There was, however, many a curious whisper of--Who was he? Whence did
he come? What was his family? And some of the knights who had served
abroad, and had been with the king at Terouenne and Tournay, conferred
together, and shook the wise head; but still it was remarked that they
were amongst those who most praised and sought the young knight. Sir
Osborne marked with a keen and observing eye all that passed about
him; and seeing that he was recognised by more than one, he felt that
he must hasten to prevent his secret being communicated to the king by
any lips but his own; and now high in favour, he only waited a fitting
opportunity to hazard all by the avowal of his name and rank.
Wolsey had been absent for nearly a month in his diocese at York, and,
removed from the influence of his presence, Lord Darby and Lady
Katrine Bulmer, Sir Osborne and Constance de Grey, seemed to have
forgot his stern authority, and given course to the feelings of their
hearts. The knight had seen Lady Constance almost every day; and good
Mistress Margaret, her woman, with whom Sir Osborne was no small
favourite, took care not to exercise towards him that strict etiquette
which she practised upon all other visitors, leaving them full
opportunity to say all that the heart sought to communicate, as she
very well perceived what feelings were busy in their breasts.
Thus everything between them was explained, everything was known:
there was no coldness, there was no reserve, there was none of that
idle and base coquetry which delights in teasing a heart that loves.
Constance de Grey loved sincerely, openly, and she had too high an
esteem for the man she had chosen, to suppose that the acknowledgment
of that love could make it less worthy in his eyes. Happy indeed it
was for them both that the most perfect confidence did exist between
them, for Henry had conceived the project of marrying the young knight
to Lady Katrine; and though the queen, with the instinctive perception
of a woman in those matters, soon saw that such a plan would very ill
accord with the feelings of either party, and quickly discouraged it,
yet Henry, giving way to all his own impetuosity, hurried it on with
precipitation, took every occasion to force them together, and
declared that he would have them married as soon as the court returned
from the meeting with the French king at Guisnes.
The situation of Sir Osborne was not a little embarrassing, the more
especially as Lady Katrine, in her merry malice, often seemed to give
in entirely to the king's schemes, having a threefold object in so
doing, if object can be attributed to such heedless gaiety; namely, to
coquet a little with Sir Osborne, which she did not dislike with
anybody, to enjoy his embarrassment, and, at the same time, to tease
Lord Darby.
With these three laudable motives she might have contrived to make Sir
Osborne and Lady Constance unhappy, had not that mutual confidence
existed between them which set all doubts at defiance. Nor, indeed,
was it Lady Katrine's wish to do harm: whimsical, gay, and
thoughtless, she gave way to the impulse of the moment. If she was in
good humour, she was all liveliness and spirit, running as close to
the borders of direct flirtation as possible with whomsoever happened
to be near; but, on the contrary, if anything went wrong with her, she
would be petulant and irritable, showing forth a thousand little airs
of affected dignity and reserve which were not natural to her. No
one's good regard did she seek more than that of Lady Constance de
Grey; and yet she seemed to take every way to lose it. But Constance,
though so different herself, understood her character, appreciated the
good, made allowance for the faults, and secure in Darnley's
affection, forgave her little coquetry with her lover.
In regard to Lord Darby, he knew Lady Katrine too; and if ever he gave
himself a moment's uneasiness about her waywardness, he did not let it
appear. If she flirted, he flirted too; if she was gay, he took care
not to be a whit behind; if she was affectionate, he was gentle; and
if she was cross, he laughed at her. She never could put him out of
humour, though, to do her all manner of justice, she tried hard; and
thus finding her attempts to tease ineffectual, she gradually relaxed
in the endeavour.
In the mean time, the days of Sir Osborne and Lady Constance flew by
in a sweet calm, that had something ominous in its tranquillity. He
had almost forgotten Sir Payan Wileton; and in the mild flow of her
happiness, Constance scarcely remembered the schemes with which the
avaricious and haughty Wolsey threatened to trouble the stream of her
existence. But, nevertheless, it was to be expected that if the
dispensation had not yet arrived from Rome, it could not be delayed
more than a few days; and that, at the return of the minister from
York, the command would be renewed for her to bestow her hand upon
Lord Darby. Such thoughts would sometimes come across Constance's mind
with a painful sensation of dread; and then, with a spirit which so
fair and tender an exterior hardly seemed to announce, she would
revolve in her mind a plan for baffling the imperious prelate at all
risks, and yet not implicate her lover at the very moment that his
"fortunes were a-making."
Then, again, she would often hope that the extraordinary preparations
that were going forward for the speedy meeting of the two courts of
France and England, all the ceremonies that were to be arranged, and
the many important questions that were to be discussed, would divert
the mind of the cardinal from herself, at least till after that
meeting had taken place; during which interval chance might produce
many circumstances more favourable to her hopes. At all events, her
resolution was taken: she felt, too, that no power on earth was
adequate to combat that determination; and thus, with fixed purpose,
she turned her mind from the contemplation of future dangers to the
enjoyment of her present happiness.
The scene in Richmond Park, to which the court had now removed from
Greenwich, as well as the bright gentleness of the May morning in
which she met Sir Osborne there, was well calculated to nurse the most
pleasing children of hope; and yet there was something melancholy even
in the magnificent aspect of the day. I know not how, but often in
those grand shining mornings the soul seems to swell too powerfully
for the body; the spirit to feel galled, as it were, by the chain that
binds it to mortality. Whatever be the cause, there is still, in such
a scene, a pensiveness that steals upon the heart; a solemnity that
makes itself felt in those innermost recesses of the mind where
thought and sensation blend so intimately as to be hardly separable
from each other. Constance and Darnley both felt it; but still it was
not sorrow that it produced; for, mingling with their fervent love and
their youthful hope, it gave their feelings something of divine.
"This is very, very lovely, Darnley," said Lady Constance, after they
had long gazed in silence. "Oh, why are not all days like this! Why
must we have the storm, and the tempest, and the cloud!"
"Perhaps," replied the knight, "if all days were so fair, we might not
esteem them so much: we should be like those, Constance, who in the
world have gone on in a long course of uninterrupted prosperity, and
who have enjoyed so much that they can no longer enjoy."
"Oh, no, no!" cried she; "there are some pleasures that never cloy,
and amongst them are those that we derive from contemplating the
loveliness of nature. I cannot think that I should ever weary of
scenes like these. No! let me have a fairy sky, where the sunshine
scarcely knows a cloud, and where the air is always soft and sweet
like this."
At this moment Mistress Margaret approached, with some consternation
in her aspect. "Good now, lady!" cried she; "look! who is that coming?
Such a strange-looking little man, no bigger than an atomy! Oh! I am
glad the knight is with us; for it is something singular, I am sure."
"You are very right, Mistress Margaret," said Sir Osborne; "this is,
indeed, a most singular being that approaches. Constance, you have
heard the queen and her ladies speak of Sir Cesar, the famous
alchymist and astrologer. He is well known to good Dr. Wilbraham, and
seems, for some reason, to take a strange interest in all my
proceedings. Depend on it, he comes to warn us of something that is
about to happen, and his warning must not be slighted; for, from
wheresoever his knowledge comes, it is very strange."
Lady Constance and the knight watched the old man as he came slowly
over the green towards them, showing little of that vivacity of
demeanour by which he was generally characterised. On approaching
near, he bowed to Lady Constance with courtly ease, saluted the knight
in a manner which might be called affectionate; and, without apology
for his intrusion, seated himself at the lady's feet, and began a gay
and easy conversation upon the justs of the day before.
"There is no court in the world," said he, after a little--"and there
are few courts I have not seen--where such sports are carried to the
height of luxury that they are here. I never saw the tournaments, the
justs, the pageants of Henry the Eighth, King of England, excelled but
once."
"And when was that, may I ask?" demanded Lady Constance, whose
feelings towards the old man were strangely mingled of awe and
curiosity, so much had she heard of him and his strange powers during
her residence at the court.
"It was in Germany," replied Sir Cesar, "at the city of Ratisbon; and
it was conducted as all such displays should ever be conducted. Each
knight wore over his armour a motley suit, and on his casque a cap and
bells; the hilt of his sword was ornamented with a bauble, and as they
made procession to the lists, the court fools of all the electors in
the empire followed behind the knights, and whipped them on with blown
bladders."
"Nay, nay, you are a satirist," said Lady Constance; "such a thing,
surely, could never happen in reality."
"In truth it did, lady," answered Sir Cesar; "it was called the
_Tournament of Fools_, though I wot not to distinguish it from other
tournaments, which are all foolish enough. Osborne," he continued,
turning abruptly to the young knight, "you will ride no more at this
court."
"How mean you?" demanded Sir Osborne: "why should I not?"
"I mean," replied the old man, "that I come to forewarn you of
approaching evil. Perhaps you may turn it aside, but there is much
that threatens you. Are you not losing time? The king's regard is
gained; wherefore, then, do you delay? While Wolsey is absent--mark
me! while Wolsey is absent--or you are lost for the moment."
"Oh! say not so," cried Lady Constance, clasping her hands; "oh! say
not so, for I hear that he returns to-morrow."
"Fear not, lady," said Sir Cesar, who had now risen; "the danger will
last but for a time, and then pass away. So that, whatever happens to
either of you, let not your hearts sink; but be firm, steadfast, and
true. All the advice I can give you is but the advice of an ordinary
mortal like yourselves. Men judge rashly when they think that even
those who see clearest can yet see clear. All that I know, all that I
behold, is but a dim shadowing forth of what will be, like the
indistinct memory of long gone years; a circumstance without a form. I
see in both your fates an evil and a sorrowful hour approaching, and
yet I cannot tell you how to avoid it; but I can descry that 'twill be
but for a while, and that must console you."
"Good Sir Cesar," said the young knight, "I will ask you no questions,
for I have now learned that you were a dear friend of my father, and I
feel sure that you will give all knowledge that may be useful to me;
and if you will tell me what is good to do in this conjuncture, I will
follow it."
"Good, now!" said Sir Cesar, with a gratified look: "good! I see you
are overcoming your old fault, though you have been a long while about
it. Three thousand years! three thousand years to my remembrance."
Constance turned an inquiring look to her lover, who, however, was not
capable of giving her any explanation. "Think you," demanded he,
addressing Sir Cesar, "that it would be best to inform his grace of
everything at once?"
"I think it would," said the old man; "I think it would, but I
scarcely dare advise you. Osborne, there is a conviction pressing on
my mind, which I have perhaps learned too late. Can it be that those
who are permitted to read certain facts in the book of fate are
blinded to the right interpretation of that which they discover?
Perhaps it may be--I have reason to believe it. Nought that I have
ever calculated has proved false; but often, often it has been
verified in a sense so opposite to my expectations, yet so evident
when it did appear, that it seems as if heaven held the search
presumptuous, and baffled the searcher even with the knowledge he
acquired. Never more will I presume to expound aught that I may learn.
The fact I tell you: an evil and a bitter hour is coming for you both,
but it shall not last, and then you shall be happy--when I am no
more." And turning away without other farewell, he left them, and took
the way to the palace.
Lady Constance gazed on the face of her lover with a look of
apprehensive tenderness that banished all thought of himself. "Oh, my
Constance!" said he, "to think of your having to undergo so much for
me is too, too painful! But fear not, dear Constance; we are still in
a land where laws are above all power, and they cannot, they dare not
ill-treat you!"
"For myself, Darnley," replied Constance, "I have no fear. They may
threaten, they may wrong me, they may do what they will, but they can
never make me marry another. It is for you I fear. However, he said
that we should be happy at last, though he hinted that you would be
driven from the court. Oh, Darnley! if that be the case--if you find
there be the least danger--fly without loss of time----"
"And leave behind me," said Darnley, "all I love in the world! Oh,
Constance! would not the block and axe itself be preferable? It would,
it would, a thousand times preferable to leaving you for ever!"
"It might," said Constance; "I myself feel it might, if you feel as I
feel. But, Darnley, I tell you at once I boldly promise to follow."
"But still, Constance, dear, excellent girl!" said the knight, "would
it be right, would it be honourable, in me to accept such a
sacrifice?"
"Darnley," said Lady Constance, firmly, "my happiness is in your
hands, and what is right and honourable is not to throw that happiness
away. Now that my love is yours, now that my hand is promised to you,
you have no right to think of rank, or fortune, or aught else. If I
were obliged to fly, would you not follow me? and wheresoever you go,
there will I find means to join you. All I ask, all I pray in return
is, that if there be the least danger, you will instantly fly. Will
you promise me? If you love me you will."
"I will," said Sir Osborne. "What would I not do to prove that love!
But I trust, dear Constance, there may be no need of hasty flight. All
they can do will be to banish me the court, for I have committed no
crime but coming here under a feigned name."
"I know not; I know not," said the lady; "'tis easy, where no crime
is, to forge an accusation; and, if report speak truth, such has been
Wolsey's frequent policy, when any one became loved of our gracious
king; so that even the favour you have gained may prove your ruin.
But you have promised to fly upon the first threatening of danger,
and I hold as a part of that promise that you will stay for no
leave-taking."
"Well, well, Constance," replied the knight, "time will show us more.
But, at all events, I will try to anticipate Wolsey's return, and, by
telling Henry all, secure my fate."
"Do so, do so!" said Lady Constance; "and, oh! lose no time. Fly to
him, Darnley; he must be risen by this time. Farewell! farewell!"
Sir Osborne would fain have lingered still, but Constance would not be
satisfied till he went. At last then he left her, and proceeded with
quick steps to the palace; while she, with a slower pace, pursued
another path through the park, having been rejoined by Mistress
Margaret, who, not liking the appearance of old Sir Cesar, had removed
to a secure distance on his approach, and who now poured forth no
inconsiderable vituperation on his face, his figure, and his apparel.