My conscience will serve me to run from this Jew.
_Merchant of Venice_.
We will now return to Lady Constance de Grey, whose fate must no
longer be left in uncertainty; and taking up the thread of our
narrative at the moment Sir Osborne quitted her, on the eventful
evening which destroyed all his fond expectations, we will, in our
homely way, record the events that followed.
It may be remembered, that at the very instant the knight parted from
good Dr. Wilbraham at the door of the young lady's apartment in the
palace at Richmond, a letter was put into the clergyman's hands, to be
delivered to the heiress of De Grey, for such was the style of the
address. No time was lost by Dr. Wilbraham in giving the letter into
his lady's hands; and on being opened, it proved to be one of those
anonymous epistles which are seldom even worth the trouble of
deciphering, being prompted always by some motive which dares not avow
itself.
However, as Lady Constance was very little in the habit of receiving
letters from any one, and certainly none to which the writer dare not
put his name, mere curiosity, if nothing else, would have prompted her
to read it through; the more especially as it was written in a fine
and clerkly hand, and in a style and manner to be acquired alone by
high and courtly education. Although the letter is still extant, we
shall not copy it, having already given one specimen of the
compositions of that day, and not at all wishing to depreciate the
times of our hero and heroine in the estimation of our more cultivated
readers. Let it be considered as sufficient, then, that we merely say,
the letter professed to be a warning from a friend, and informed the
young lady that the most rigorous measures were about to be adopted
towards her, in case of her still refusing to comply with Wolsey's
command in respect to her marriage with Lord Darby. The writer then
hinted that perpetual seclusion in a convent, together with the
forfeiture of all her estates, would be the consequence, if she could
not contrive to fly immediately; but that, if she could, her person at
least would be at liberty, and that a friend would watch over her
property; and, as a conclusion, he advised her to leave Richmond by
water, as the means which would leave the least trace of her course.
So singularly did this letter anticipate not only her own fears, but
also her own plans, that it instantly acquired, in the eyes of Lady
Constance, an authenticity which it did not otherwise possess; and
placing it in the hands of Dr. Wilbraham, she asked his opinion upon
its contents.
"Pshaw!" cried the clergyman when he had read it; "pshaw! lady, it is
all nonsense! The very reverend lord cardinal will never try to make
you marry against your will. Do not frighten yourself about it, my
dear lady; depend on it, 'tis all nonsense. Let me see it again." But
after he had read it over once more, Dr. Wilbraham's opinion seemed in
some degree to change. He considered the letter, and reconsidered it,
with very thoughtful eyes, and then declared it was strange that any
one should write it unless it were true; and yet he would not believe
that either. "Pray, lady, have you any idea who wrote it?" demanded
he.
"I can imagine but one person," said Lady Constance, "who could
possess the knowledge and would take the pains. Margaret, leave us,"
she continued, turning to the waiting-woman. "I have heard, my dear
Dr. Wilbraham," she proceeded, as soon as they were alone, "that you
were in former times acquainted with an old knight called Sir Cesar. I
met him yesterday when I was out in the park." Lady Constance paused,
and a slight blush came into her cheek, as she remembered that the
good clergyman knew nothing of the affection which subsisted between
herself and Darnley; and feeling a strong repugnance to say that he
was with her at the moment, she hesitated, not knowing how to proceed.
Dr. Wilbraham relieved her, however, by exclaiming, the instant she
stopped, "Oh, yes, lady; in truth I know him well. He was the dearest
and the best friend of my Lord Fitzbernard; and though unhappily given
to strange and damnable pursuits--God forgive him!--I must say he was
a friend to all the human race, and a man to be trusted and esteemed.
But think you this letter came from him?"
"He is the only one," replied Constance, "on whom my mind could for a
moment fix as having written it."
"It is very likely," answered the clergyman: "it is very likely; and
if it comes from him, you may believe every word that it contains. His
knowledge, lady, is strange, is very strange, and is more than good,
but it is sure. He is one of those restless spirits that must ever be
busy; and, human knowledge not being sufficient for his eager mind, he
has sought more than he should seek, and found more than is for the
peace of his soul."
"But if he make a good use of his knowledge," said Constance, "surely
it cannot be very wicked, my dear sir."
"It is presumptuous, lady," replied the clergyman; "it is most
presumptuous to seek what God has concealed from our poor nature."
"But if this letter be from him," said the lady, "and the bad tidings
that it brings be true, what ought I to do? You, whom my dear father
left with me, asking you never to quit me---you must be my adviser,
and tell me what to do in this emergency; for sure I am that you will
never advise me to marry a man whom I do not love, and who does not
even love me."
"No, no, heaven forbid! especially when you would rather marry
Osborne," said the good clergyman with the utmost simplicity, looking
upon it quite as a matter of course, which required no particular
delicacy of handling: "and a much better thing too, lady, in every
respect," he continued, seeing that he had called up a blush in
Constance's cheek, and fancying that it arose from a fear of his
disapproving her choice. "If you will tell the lord cardinal all the
circumstances, depend upon it he will not press you to do anything you
dislike. Let him have the whole history, my dear lady; tell him that
you do not love Lord Darby, and that he loves another; and then show
him how dearly Darnley loves you, and how you love him in return; and
then----"
"Oh, hush, hush! my dear Dr. Wilbraham!" cried the lady, with the
blood glowing through her fair clear skin, over neck, and face, and
forehead. "Impossible, indeed; quite impossible! You forget."
"Oh! yes, yes, I did forget," replied the chaplain. "Osborne does not
wish his name to be known; I did forget. Very true! That is
unfortunate. But cannot you just insinuate that you do love some one
else, but do not like to mention his name?"
Lady Constance now endeavoured to make the simple clergyman
understand, that under any circumstances she would be obliged to limit
her reply to the cardinal to a plain refusal to wed Lord Darby; and
though he could not enter into any feelings of reluctance on her part
to avow her regard for Darnley, yet he fully comprehended that she was
bound to hold undivulged the confidence of others. However, he did not
cease to lament that this was the case, fully convinced in his own
mind, that if she had been able to inform Wolsey of everything, the
prelate, whom he judged after his own heart, would have unhesitatingly
accorded his sanction to all her wishes, whereas, at present, her
refusal might be attributed to obstinacy, being unsupported by any
reasons; and thus, indeed, he observed, Sir Cesar's prediction might
be fulfilled, and she obliged to fly to screen herself from the
consequences. Dr. Wilbraham having admitted that there might be a
necessity for flight, the mind of Constance was infinitely quieted,
that being a point on which she had long, long wished to ascertain his
opinion, yet had timidly held back, believing him to be unacquainted
with the most powerful motive that actuated her. Nothing now remained
but to learn whether he would so far sanction her proceedings as to
accompany her; and she was considering the best means of proposing it
to him, when she received a message to inform her that the cardinal
waited her in the little tapestried hall.
The moment which was to decide her fate she plainly perceived to be
now arrived; but, with all the gentle sweetness of her character, a
fund of dauntless resolution had descended to her from a long line of
warlike ancestors, which failed not to come to her aid in moments of
danger and extremity; and though she had long dreaded the interview to
which she was now called, she prepared to undergo it with courage and
firmness. In obedience to the cardinal's command, then, she descended
to the hall, accompanied by two of her women, who, though neither
likely to suffer anything themselves, nor informed of their mistress's
situation, yet felt much more alarm at the thoughts of approaching the
imperious Wolsey than even she herself did, burthened as her mind was
with the certainty of offending a man the limit of whose power it was
not easy to define.
At the door of the hall stood two of the cardinal's ushers, by whom
she was introduced into the chamber to which Wolsey had retired after
leaving the king, and where, seated in a chair of state, he waited her
approach with many an ensign of his pomp and power about. As she
entered, he fixed his eye upon her, scarcely rising from his seat, but
still slightly bending his head in token of salutation. The high blood
of De Grey, however, though flowing in a woman's veins, and one of the
gentlest of her sex, was not made to humble itself before the upstart
prelate; and moving forward unbidden, Lady Constance calmly seated
herself in a chair opposite to that of the cardinal, while her women
placed themselves behind her; and thus, in silence, she waited for him
to speak.
"Lady," said Wolsey, when she was seated, "at the time I saw you last,
I proposed to you a marriage, which in point of rank, of fortune, and
of every other accessory circumstance, is one which may well be
counted amongst the best of the land, and for which I expected to have
your thanks. Instead thereof, however, I received, at the moment of my
departure for York, a letter wherein, with a mild obstinacy and an
humble pride, you did reject what was worthy of your best gratitude. A
month has now waned since then, and I trust that calm reflection has
restored you to your sense of what is right; which being the case, all
that is past shall be pardoned and forgot."
"Your proposal, my lord cardinal," replied Lady Constance, "was
doubtless intended for my happiness, and therein you have my most
sincere gratitude; but yet I see not how I can have merited either
reproof or pardon, in a matter which, alone concerning myself, no one
can judge of but myself."
"You speak amiss, lady," said Wolsey, haughtily; "ay, and very boldly
do you speak. Am not I your guardian by the English law? and are you
not my ward? Say, lady, say!"
"I am your ward, my lord," replied Lady Constance, her spirit rising
under his oppression, "but not your slave; you are my guardian, but
not my master."
"You are nice in your refinements, lady," said the cardinal; "but if I
am your guardian, I am to judge what is good for you, till such time
as the law permits you to judge for yourself."
"That time is within one month, my lord," answered Constance; "and
even were it longer, I never yet did hear that a guardian could force
a ward to wed against her will, though I at once acknowledge his right
to forbid her marriage where he may judge against it."
"Nay!" exclaimed Wolsey, "this is somewhat too much. This bold spirit,
lady, becomes you not, and must be abated. Learn, that though I in
gentleness rule you but as a ward, and for your own good control your
stubborn will, the king, your sovereign, may act with a stronger hand,
and, heedless of your idle fancies, compel you to obey."
"Then to the king, my sovereign, I appeal," said Constance, "sure that
his justice and his clemency will yield me that protection which, God
help me! I much need."
"Your appeal is in vain, proud girl!" cried the cardinal, rising
angrily, while the fiery spirit flashed forth from his dark eye. "I
stand here armed in this case with the king's power, and commissioned
to speak his will; and 'tis in his name that I command you, on
Thursday next, at God's altar, to give your hand to your noble cousin,
Lord Darby; ay, and gratefully to give it, without which you may fall
to beggary and want; for know, that all those broad lands which now so
swell your pride are claimed by Sir Payan Wileton, in right of male
descent, and may pass away like a shadow from your feeble hand,
leaving you nought but your vanity for dowry."
"Then let them pass," said Constance, firmly; "for I would sooner a
thousand times be landless, friendless, hopeless, than wed a man I do
not love."
"And end your days in a nunnery, you should have added to the
catalogue of woes you call upon your head," said the cardinal,
sternly; "for, as I live, such shall be your fate. Choose either to
give your vows to your cousin or to heaven, lady; for no other choice
shall be left you. Till Thursday next I give you to decide; and while
you ponder, York Place shall be your abode. Lady, no more!" he added,
seeing her about to speak; "I have not time to argue against your fine
wit. To-night, if I reach Westminster in time, I will send down your
litter; if not, to-morrow, by eight of the clock; and be you prepared.
I have done."
Constance would not trust her voice with any reply; for the very
efforts she had made to conceal her agitation had but served to render
it more overpowering, and it was now ready to burst forth in tears.
Repressing them, however, she rose, and bending her head to the
cardinal, returned to her own apartments. Here Dr. Wilbraham awaited
her in no small anxiety, to know the event of her conference with
Wolsey, which, as it had been so short, he judged must be favourable.
Lady Constance soon undeceived him, however; and shocked and indignant
at the cardinal's haughty and tyrannical conduct, he at once agreed
with the lady that she had no resource but flight.
"It is very strange! very strange, indeed!" cried the good man. "I
have often heard that the lord cardinal is haughty and cruel, and
indeed men lay to his charge that he never does anything but for his
own interests; but I would never believe it before. I thought that God
would never have placed so much power in the hands of so bad a man;
but His ways are inscrutable, and His name be praised! Now, my dear
lady, what is to be done? Where are we to go? Had not I better go and
tell Osborne, in order that he may know all about it?"
"On no account," replied Constance; "however painful it may be, my
good friend--and painful indeed it is, I acknowledge"--and while she
spoke, the long-repressed tears burst forth, and rolled rapidly over
her face; "I must go without even bidding him adieu. I would not for
the world involve him at this time in a business which might bring
about his ruin. He shall be innocent even of the knowledge of my
flight, so that Wolsey shall have no plea against him. When his fate
is fixed and the storm is blown away, I will let him know where I am;
for I owe him that at least. Even for you, my good Dr. Wilbraham, I
fear," she continued. "If you fly with me, may it not bring down upon
your head some ecclesiastical censure? If so, for heaven's sake, let
me go with Margaret alone."
"Why, it may, indeed," answered the chaplain thoughtfully. "I had
forgot that. It may indeed. What can be done?"
"Then you shall stay," replied Lady Constance, with some degree of
mournfulness of accent at the thought of the friendless loneliness
with which she was going to cast herself upon the wide, inhospitable
world. "Then you shall stay indeed."
"What! and leave you to wander about alone, I know not whither?" cried
the young clergyman. "No, my child, no! Did all the dangers in the
world hang over my head, where you go, there will I go too. If I
cannot protect you much--which, God help me! is not in my power--at
least I can console you under your sorrows, and support you during
your pilgrimage, by pointing continually to that Being who is the
protector of the widow and the orphan, the friend of the friendless
and the desolate. Lady, I will go with you. All the dangers in the
world shall not scare me from your side."
A new energy seemed to have sprung up in the bosom of the clergyman;
and by his advice and assistance Lady Constance's plans and
arrangements for her flight were very soon completed.
It was agreed that herself, Dr. Wilbraham, and Mistress Margaret, the
waiting-woman, should immediately take boat, and proceed by water to
the little village of Tothill, from whence a walk of five minutes
would bring them to the house of the physician Dr. Butts, who, as the
old chaplain observed, was, though his nephew, a man of an active and
piercing mind, and would probably find some means to facilitate their
escape to France. By landing some little way from his house, they
hoped to prevent their route from being traced afterwards, and thus to
evade pursuit, as to be overtaken and brought back would involve far
more danger than even to remain where they were and dare the worst.
All this being determined between Lady Constance and the clergyman,
Mistress Margaret was called in, and informed of as much of the plan
as was necessary to enable her to make up her mind whether she would
accompany her young lady or not. Without a moment's hesitation, she
decided upon going, and having received her orders, proceeded to
arrange for their journey such articles of apparel as were absolutely
necessary, together with all her lady's money and jewels. She also was
deputed to inform the other servants that Lady Constance thought it
best to follow the lord cardinal to York Place immediately, instead of
waiting for the litter which he had promised to send, and that she
only permitted herself and Dr. Wilbraham to accompany her.
Everything being ready, a man was sought to carry the two large bags
to which their luggage was restricted; and Constance prepared to put
in execution the very important step on which she had determined. Her
heart sank, it is true, and her spirit almost failed, as Dr. Wilbraham
took her by the hand to lead her to the boat; but remembering to what
she would expose herself if she staid, she recalled her courage and
proceeded on her way.
In the ante-chamber, however, she had a painful scene to go through;
for her women, not deceived by Mistress Margaret's tale, clung round
their lady for what they deemed might be a last farewell. All of them,
born upon her father's lands, had grown up as it were with her; and
for some good quality, called from amongst the other peasantry to the
honour of serving the heiress of De Grey, had become attached to her
by early habit, as well as by the affection which her gentle manners
and sweet disposition were certain to produce in all those by whom she
was surrounded. Many a bitter tear was shed by the poor girls as they
saw their lady about to leave them: and Constance herself, unable to
refrain from weeping, thereby not only encouraged their grief, but
confirmed their fears. Angry with herself for giving way to her
feelings when she felt the absolute necessity of governing them
strictly, Constance gently disengaged herself from her maids, and
promising to let them hear of her soon, proceeded to the water-side,
where they easily procured a boat to convey them down the river.
The irrevocable step was now taken, and Constance and the chaplain
both sat in silence, contemplating the vague future, and striving,
amidst all the dim, uncertain shapes that it presented, to ascertain,
even as far as probability went, what might be their fate. But the
dark, impenetrable curtain, drawn ever between to-day and to-morrow,
still barred their view, leaving only room for hope and fear to range
within the wide circle of unceasing doubt.
Long before arriving at Tothill, the sun had gone down; and the cold
wind, blowing from the river, chilled Lady Constance as she sat in the
open boat without any other covering than a long veil added to her
ordinary apparel. Notwithstanding this, she judged it best to bid
their two rowers continue their course as far as Westminster, fearing
that the little knowledge of the localities possessed either by Dr.
Wilbraham or herself might cause them to lose their way if they
pursued their original intention of landing at Tothill, and hoping
that the darkness, which was now coming thick upon them, would at
least conceal their path from the boat to the house of Dr. Butts. To
ensure this, as soon as they had landed. Mistress Margaret took one of
the bags, and the good clergyman the other, and having satisfied the
boatmen for their labour, the whole party began to thread the narrow,
tortuous lanes and streets constituting the good town of Westminster.
After various turnings and windings, however, they discovered that
they were not on the right track, and were obliged to ask their way of
an old locksmith, who was just shutting up his shop. The direction
they received from the worthy artificer was somewhat confused, and
contained so many _rights_ and _lefts_, that by the time they had
taken two more turnings, each person of the three had got a different
reading of the matter, and could in no way agree as to their farther
proceeding.
"He said we were to go on, in this street, till we came to a lantern,
I am sure," said Dr. Wilbraham.
"No, no, sir," cried Mistress Margaret; "it was the next street after
we had turned to the left. Did he not say, Take the first street to
the right, and then the first again to the right, and then the second
to the left, and then go on till we came to a lantern?"
Dr. Wilbraham denied the position, and the matter was only terminated
by Constance proposing that they should proceed to the second turning
at least. "Then, if we see a light in the street to the left," she
continued, "we may reasonably suppose that that is the turning he
meant, unless before that we find a lantern here too, and then we can
but ask again. But make haste, my dear Dr. Wilbraham, for there is a
man behind who seems as if he were watching us!"
This last observation quickened all their motions, and proceeding as
fast as possible, they found that Mistress Margaret was in the right;
for immediately in the centre of the second turning to the left
appeared a lantern, shedding its dim, small light down the long
perspective of the street; which, be it remarked, was highly favoured
in having such an appendage, few and scanty being the lights that, in
that age, illuminated the streets of London after dark, and those, as
in the present instance, being the boon of private individuals.
Pursuing their way, then, towards this brilliant luminary, with many a
look behind to ascertain whether they were followed, which did not
appear to be the case, they found another street, diverging to the
right, which shared in the beneficent rays of the lantern, and which
also conducted into a known latitude, namely, a sort of little square,
that was instantly recognised by the chaplain as being in the
immediate proximity of his nephew's dwelling.
The house of Dr. Butts now soon presented itself; and entering the
little court before it, the clergyman was just about to knock against
a door which fronted them, when some one, entering the court from the
street, laid hold of his arm, saying, "Stop, stop, if you please! you
must come with me to my lord cardinal."