Once more the fleeting soul came back
T' inspire the mortal frame,
And in the body took a doubtful stand,
Hovering like expiring flame,
That mounts and falls by turns.--Dryden.
The painful situation of Lady Constance de Grey had not lost any
portion of its sorrow, or gained any ray of hope, on the first of
June, three days after we last left her, at which period we again take
up her story. She was then sitting in a small, poor cottage between
Whitesand Bay and Boulogne, watching the slumber of the excellent old
man whose regard for her had brought upon his head so much pain and
danger. Ever since he had been removed to the hut where they now were,
he had lingered in great agony, except at those times when a state of
stupor fell upon him, under which he would remain for many hours, and
only wake from it again to acute pain. He had, however, that morning
fulfilled the last duties of his religion, with the assistance of a
good monk of Boulogne, who now sat with Lady Constance, watching the
sweet sleep into which he had fallen for the first time since their
shipwreck.
Across the little window, to keep out the light, Constance had drawn
one of her own dresses, which had been saved by the sailor Bradford
having tied the leathern case that contained them to the plank which
had brought herself to shore; but still through the casement,
notwithstanding this sort of extemporaneous curtain, the soft breath
of the early morning flowed in; and the murmuring voice of the
treacherous ocean was heard softly from afar, filling up every pause
in the singing of the birds and the busy hum of all the light children
of the summer.
The calmness of the old man's slumber gave Constance hope; and with a
sweet smile she sat beside him, listening to the mingled voice of
creation, and joining mentally in the song of praise that all things
seemed raising towards the great Creator. Indeed, if ever mortal being
might be supposed to resemble those pure spirits who, freed from all
touch of clay, adore the Almighty in his works, she then looked like
an angel, in form, in feature, and in expression, while, robed all in
white, and watching the sick bed of her ancient friend, she looked
upon his tranquil slumber with that bland smile of hope and gratitude.
In the mean while the old monk sat on the other side of his bed,
regarding him with more anxiety; for long experience in visiting those
who hung upon the brink of another world tad taught him, that sleep
like that into which the clergyman had fallen as often precedes death
as recovery. It had continued thus till towards mid-day, the cottage
being left in solitude and silence; for the sailor Bradford had gone
to seek remedies from a simpler at Boulogne, and Jekin Groby had
stolen away for a visit to Calais, while the people to whom the
cottage belonged were absent upon their daily occupations. At length,
however, a slight sort of convulsive motion passed over the features
of the old man, and, opening his eyes, he said in a faint, low voice,
"Constance, my dear child, where are you? My eyes are dim."
"I am here, my dear sir," replied Constance. "You have been sleeping
very sweetly. I hope you feel better."
"It is over, Constance!" replied Dr. Wilbraham, calmly, but feebly. "I
am dying, my child. Let me see the sunshine." Constance withdrew the
curtain, and the fresh air blowing on the sick man's face seemed to
give him more strength. "It is bright," cried he; "it is very bright.
I feel the sweet summer air, and I hear the glad singing of the birds;
but I go fast, dear daughter, where there are things brighter and
sweeter; for surely, surely, God, who has clothed this world with such
splendour, has reserved far greater for the world to come."
The tears streamed down Constance's cheeks, for there was in the old
man's face a look of death not to be mistaken; that look, the
inevitable precursor of dissolution to man, when it seems as if the
avenging angel had come between him and the sun of being, and cast his
dark shadow over him for ever.
"Weep not, Constance," said the old man, with faint and broken
efforts; "for no storms will reach me in my Redeemer's bosom. In his
mercy is my hope, in his salvation is my reliance. Soon, soon shall I
be in the place of peace, where joy reigneth eternally. Could I have a
fear, my dear child, it would be for you, left alone in a wide and
desolate world, with none to protect you. But, no; I have no fear: God
is your protector; and never, never, my child, doubt his goodness, nor
think that he does not as surely watch over the universe as he that
created it at first. Everything is beneath his eye, from the smallest
grain of sand to the great globe itself; and his will governs all, and
guides all, though we see neither the beginning nor the end.
Constance, I am departing," he continued, more faintly: "God's
blessing be upon you, my child! and, oh! if He in his wisdom ever
permits the spirit of the dead to watch over those they loved when
living, I will be with you and Darnley when this frail body is dust."
His lips began gradually to lose their power of utterance, and his
head fell back upon the pillow. The monk saw that the good man's end
was approaching fast, and placing the crucifix in his dying hand, he
poured the words of consolation in his ear; but Dr. Wilbraham slightly
motioned with his hand, to signify that he was quite prepared, and
fixing his eyes upon the cross, murmured to himself, "I come, O Lord,
I come! Be thou merciful unto me, O King of mercy! Deliver speedily
from the power of death, O Lord of life!"
The sounds gradually ceased, but yet his lips continued to move; his
lips lost their motion, but his eyes were fixed, full of hope, upon
the cross; a film came over them; it passed away, and the light beamed
up again--shone brightly for a moment--waned--vanished--and all was
death. The eyes were still fixed upon the cross, but that bright
thing, life, was there no more. To look at them, no one could say what
was gone between that minute and the one before; and yet it was
evident that they were now but dust: the light was extinguished, the
wine was poured out, and it was but the broken lamp, the empty urn,
that remained to go down into the tomb.
Constance closed his eyes, and weeping bitterly, knelt down with the
old monk, and joined in the prayer that he addressed to heaven. She
then rose, and seated herself by all that remained of her dead friend,
feeling alone in all the world, solitary, friendless, desolate; and
straining her sweet eyes upon the cold, unresponsive countenance of
the dead, she seemed bitterly to drink to the dregs the cup of
hopelessness which that sight offered.
No one spoke. The monk himself was silent, seeming to think that the
prayer he had offered to the Deity was the only fitting language for
the presence of the dead; when a sound was heard without, and the
door, gently opening, admitted the form of Jekin Groby. The good
clothier thought the old man still slept, as when he had left the
cottage, and advanced on tiptoe for fear of waking him; but the lifted
hand of the monk, the streaming eyes of Constance, and the cold, rigid
stiffness of the face before him, warned him of what had happened; and
pausing suddenly, he clasped his hands with a look of unaffected
sorrow. "Good God!" cried he, "he is dead! Alas the day!" Constance's
tears streamed afresh. "Lady," said the worthy man, in a kindly tone,
"take comfort! He is gone to a better place than we have here, poor
hapless souls! And surely, if all were as well fitted for that place
as he was, we should have little cause to fear our death, and our
gossips little cause to weep. Take comfort, sweet lady! take comfort!
Our God is too good for us to murmur when he cuts our measure short."
There was something in the homely consolation of the honest Englishman
that touched Constance to the heart, and yet she could not refrain
from weeping even more than before.
"Nay, nay, dear lady," continued Jekin, affected almost to tears
himself; "you must come away from here. I cannot bear to see you weep
so; and though I am but a poor clothier, and little fitted to put
myself in his place that is gone, I will never leave you till I see
you safe. Indeed I won't! Come, lady, into the other cottage hard by,
and we will send some one to watch here in your place. Lord, Lord! to
think how soon a fellow-creature is gone! Sure I thought to find him
better when I came back. Come, lady, come!"
"Perhaps I had better," replied Constance, drying her tears. "My cares
for him are useless; yet, though I murmur not at God's will, I must
e'en weep, for I have lost as good a friend, and the world has lost as
good a man, as ever it possessed. But I will go; for it is in vain to
stay here and encourage unavailing grief." She then addressed a few
sentences to the monk in French, thanking him for his charitable
offices towards her dead friend, and begging him to remain there till
she could send some one to watch the body; adding, that if he would
come after that to the adjoining cottage, she would beg him to convey
to his convent a small gift on her part.
The monk bowed his head, and promised to obey; and Constance, giving
one last look to the inanimate form of the excellent being she had
just lost, followed Jekin Groby to the cottage hard by, where, begging
to be left alone, she once more burst into tears, and let both her
sorrow and despondency have way, feeling that sort of oppression at
her heart which can be relieved but by weeping.
It is needless to follow farther such sad scenes; to tell the blunt
grief of Bradford, when he returned and found that his errand had been
in vain; or to describe the funeral of good Dr. Wilbraham, which took
place the next day (for so custom required) in the little cemetery of
Whitesand Bay.
Immediately this was over, Lady Constance prepared to set out for
Boulogne, hoping to find a refuge in the heart of France till she had
time to consider and execute some plan for her future conduct. We have
twice said, that the sailor, in tying her to the plank on which she
had floated from the shipwrecked vessel, had fastened to the end of
the board nearest her feet one of her own leathern cases, for the
purpose of keeping her head raised above the water; and in this, as it
luckily happened, were all the jewels and the money which she had
brought with her from London.
It would doubtless have rendered her situation much more critical and
interesting if she had been deprived of all such resources; but as the
fact was so, it is necessary to state it. No difficulty, therefore,
seemed likely to present itself in her journey to her own estates,
except that which might arise in procuring a litter to convey her on
her way, or in meeting with some female attendant willing to accompany
her. The latter of these was soon done away with; for the daughter of
the cottagers where she had lodged, a gay, good-humoured Picarde,
gladly undertook the post of waiting-woman to the sweet lady, whose
gentleness had won them all; and Bradford, who, from a soldier, a
sailor, a shipwright, and a Rochester rioter, had now become a squire
of dames, was despatched to Boulogne to see if he could buy or hire a
litter and horses.
In the midst of all these proceedings, poor Jekin Groby was sadly
agitated by many contending feelings. In his first fit of sympathy
with Constance on the death of Dr. Wilbraham, he had, as we have seen,
promised to accompany her to the end of her journey, whithersoever it
might be; but the thoughts of dear little England, and his own
fireside, and his bales of cloth, and his bags of angels, called him
vehemently across the Channel, while curiosity, with a certain touch
of mercantile calculation, pulled him strongly towards the court at
Calais. Notwithstanding, he resolved, above all things, to act
handsomely, as he said, towards the lady; and accordingly he
accompanied Bradford to Boulogne, to ascertain if he could by any way
get off trudging after her the Lord knew where, as he expressed it,
though he vowed he was very willing to go if he could be of any
service.
After the sailor and his companion had been absent about six hours,
Constance began to be impatient, and proceeded to the door of the
cottage to see if she could perceive them coming. Gazing for a few
minutes on the road to Boulogne, she beheld, rising above the brow of
the hill before her, a knight's pennon, and presently half-a-dozen
spears appeared bristling up behind it. Judging that it was some
accidental party proceeding towards Whitesand Bay, Constance retired
into the cottage, and was not a little surprised when she heard the
horses halt before the door. In a moment after, a gallant cavalier, in
peaceful guise, armed only with his sword and dagger, entered the hut,
and, doffing his plumed mortier to the lady, with a low inclination of
the head, he advanced towards her, saying in French, "Have I the
honour of speaking to the noble Lady de Grey, Countess of Boissy and
the Val de Marne?"
"The same, sir knight," replied the lady. "To what, may I ask, do I
owe the honour of your presence?"
"His highness Francis King of France, now in the city of Boulogne,"
replied the knight, "hearing that a lady, and his vassal, though born
an English subject, had been shipwrecked on this shore, has chosen me
for the pleasing task of inviting, in his name, the Countess de Boissy
to repair to his royal court, not as a sovereign commanding the homage
of his vassal, but as a gracious and a noble friend, offering service
and good-will. His highness's sister, also, the Princess Marguerite of
Alençon, has sent her own litter for your convenience, with such
escort as may suit your quality."
Constance could only express her thanks. Had she possessed the power
of choice, she would of course have preferred a thousand times to have
retired to the Val de Marne, without her coming being known to the
French king or his court, till such time, at least, as the meeting
between him and the King of England had taken place. However, as it
was known, she could not refuse to obey, and she signified her
readiness to accompany the French knight, begging him merely to wait
till the return of a person she had sent to Boulogne for a litter.
"He will not return, lady," replied the chevalier. "It was through his
search for a litter at Boulogne, where none are to be had, all being
bought for the court's progress to Ardres, that his highness became
acquainted with your arrival within his kingdom."
The knight was proceeding to inform her of the circumstances which had
occurred, when the quick sound of horses' feet was heard without,
joined to the clanging of arms, the jingling of spurs and trappings,
and various rough cries in the English tongue.
"Have her! but I will have her, by the Lord!" cried a voice near the
door; and in a moment after, a knight, armed at all points, strode
into the cottage. "How now! how now!" cried he; "what is all this? Ah,
Monsieur de Bussy," he continued, changing his language to broken,
abominable French, "what are you doing with this lady?"
"I come, Sir John Hardacre," answered the Frenchman, "to invite her to
the court of Francis of France, whose vassal the lady is."
"And I come," replied the Englishman, "to claim her for Henry King of
England, whose born subject she is, and ward of the crown; and so I
will have her, and carry her to Guisnes, as I am commanded."
"That depends upon circumstances, sir," answered the Frenchman,
offended at the tone of the other. "You are governor of Calais, but
you do not command here. You are off the English pale, sir; and I say
that unless the lady goes with you willingly and by preference, you
shall not take her."
"I shall not!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Who the devil shall stop
me?"
"That will I," answered the French knight; "and I tell you so to your
beard."
The Englishman laid his hand upon his sword, and the Frenchman was not
slack to follow his example; but Constance interposed. "Hold, hold,
gentlemen!" cried she; "I am not worthy of such contention. Monsieur
de Bussy, favour me by offering every expression of my humble duty to
his highness your noble king; and show him that I intended instantly
to have obeyed his commands, and followed you to his court, but that I
am compelled, against my will, to do otherwise. Sir John Hardacre, I
am ready to accompany you."
"If such be your will, fair lady," replied the French knight, "I have
nothing but to execute your charge. However, I must repeat, that
without your full consent you shall not be taken from French ground,
or I am no true knight."
An angry replication trembled on the lip of the English captain, but
Constance stopped its utterance by once more declaring her willingness
to go; and the French officer, bowing low, thrust back his sword into
the sheath, and left the cottage, somewhat out of humour with the
event of his expedition.
When he and his followers had ridden away, Sir John Hardacre called up
a lady's horse, which one of his men-at-arms led by the bridle; and
after permitting Constance to make some change of her apparel, and to
pay the good folks of the cottage for her entertainment, he placed her
in the saddle, and holding the bridle himself, led her away at a quick
pace towards Guisnes. He was a rough old soldier, somewhat hardened by
long military service; but the beauty and gentleness of his fair
prisoner (for such indeed may we consider poor Constance to have been)
somewhat softened his acerbity; and after riding on for near an hour
in silence, during which he revolved at least twenty ways of
addressing the lady, without pleasing himself with any, he began by a
somewhat bungling excuse, both for his errand and his manner of
executing it.
"I suppose, sir," replied Constance, coldly, "that you have done your
duty. Whether you have done it harshly or not is for you to consider."
This quite put a stop to all the knight's intentions of conversation,
and did not particularly soothe his humour; so that for many miles
along the road he failed not every moment to turn round his head, and
vent his spleen upon his men in various high-seasoned curses, for
faults which they might or might not have committed, as the case
happened; the knight's powers of objurgation not only extending to the
cursing itself, but also to supplying the cause.
It was nearly seven o'clock when they began to approach the little
town of Guisnes, but at that season of the year the full light of day
was still shining upon all the objects round about; and Constance
might perceive, as they rode up, all the bustle, and crowding, and
idle activity caused by the arrival of the court.
Her heart sank when she saw it, and thought of all she might there
have to endure. Under any other circumstances, however, it would have
been a gay and a pleasing sight; so full of life and activity, glitter
and show, was everything that met the eye.
To the southward of the town of Guisnes, upon the large open green
that extended on the outside of the walls, were to be seen a vast
number of tents, of all kinds and colours, with a multitude of busy
human beings employed in raising fresh pavilions on every open space,
or in decorating those already spread with streamers, pennons, and
banners, of all the bright hues under the sun. Long lines of horses
and mules loaded with armour or baggage, and ornamented with gay
ribbons, to put them in harmony with the scene, were winding about,
all over the plain, some proceeding towards the town, some seeking the
tents of their several lords; while, mingled amongst them, appeared
various bands of soldiers, on horseback and on foot, with the rays of
the declining sun glancing upon the heads of their bills and lances,
and, together with the white cassock and broad red cross, marking them
out from all the other objects. Here and there, too, might be seen a
party of knights and gentlemen cantering over the plain, and enjoying
the bustle of the scene, or standing in separate groups, issuing their
orders for the erection and garnishing of their tents; while couriers,
and pursuivants, and heralds, in all their gay dresses, mingled with
mule-drivers, lacqueys, and peasants, armourers, pages, and
tent-stretchers, made up the living part of the landscape.
Behind lay the town of Guisnes, with the forest at its back; and a
good deal nearer, the castle, with its protecting guns pointed over
the plain; but the most striking object, and that which instantly
caught the eye, was a building raised immediately in front of the
citadel, on which all that art could devise, or riches could procure,
had been lavished, to render it a palace fit for the luxurious king
who was about to make it his temporary residence.
From the distance at which they were when it first struck her sight,
Constance could only perceive that it was a vast and splendid edifice,
apparently square, and seeming to offer a façade of about four hundred
feet on every side, while the sun, reflected from the gilding with
which it was covered, and the immense quantity of glass that it
contained, rendered it like some great ornament of gold enriched with
brilliants.
Although her heart was sad, and nothing that she saw tended to
dispel its gloom, she could not refrain from gazing round with a
half-curious, half-anxious glance upon all the gay objects that
surrounded her; almost fearing to be recognised by some one who had
known her at the court, now that she was led along as a kind of
prisoner; a single woman amidst a band of rude soldiers. Sir John
Hardacre, however, spurred on towards the bridge, which was nearly
impassable from the number of beasts of burden and their drivers by
which it was covered; and standing on but little ceremony with his
fellow-lieges, he dashed through the midst of them all, cursing one,
and striking another, and overturning a third, much to Constance's
horror and dismay. Having reached the other side, and created by his
haste as much confusion and discomfort as he could in his passage, the
surly captain slackened his pace, muttering something about dignity,
and turned his rein towards the temporary palace of the king.
Proceeding slowly amidst a multitude, many of whom had seen her
before, and whose notice she was very willing to escape, Constance's
only resource was to fix her eyes upon the palace, and to busy herself
in the contemplation of its splendour.
Raised upon a high platform, it was not only visible from every part
of the plain, but itself commanded a view of the whole gay scene
below, with its tents and its multitudes, standing as a sort of
nucleus to all the magnificence around.
Before the gate to which Sir John Hardacre took his way, and which was
itself a massy arch, flanked by two towers raised upon the platform,
there stood two objects not unworthy of remark, as exemplifying the
tastes of the day: the one was a magnificent fountain, richly wrought
with arches and arabesques, painted in fine gold and blue, supporting
a figure of Bacchus crowned with vine leaves, over whose head appeared
inscribed, in letters of gold, "_Faites bonne chère qui voudra_." No
unmeaning invitation, for the fountain below ceased not to pour forth
three streams of various coloured wines, supplied by reservoirs in the
interior of the palace. On the other side of the gate were seen four
golden lions supporting a pillar of bronze, round the shaft of which
twined up various gilt wreaths, interlaced together; while on the
summit stood a statue of Venus's "purblind son and heir," pointing his
arrows at those who approached the gate.
Nevertheless, it was not on the charmed cup of the one, or the bended
bow of the other chicken deity, that the battlemented arch above
mentioned relied for defence; for in the several windows were placed
gigantic figures of men in armour, apparently in the act of hurling
down enormous rocks upon the head of whatever venturous stranger
should attempt to pass the prescribed bound. At the same time appeared
round about various goodly paintings of the demigods of story: the
Herculeses, the Theseuses, the Alexanders, fabulous and historical;
while, showing strangely enough in such company, many a fat porter and
yeoman of the lodge loitered about in rich liveries, as familiar with
the gods and goddesses as if they had been born upon Olympus and
swaddled in Tempé.
At the flight of steps which led to this gate Sir John Hardacre
dismounted, and lifting Lady Constance from her horse, passed on into
the inner court of the palace, which would indeed have been not only
splendid, but elegant, had it not been for a few instances of the same
refined taste which we have just noticed. The four inner faces of the
building were perfectly regular, consisting of two stories, the lower
one of which was almost entirely of glass, formed into plain and bow
windows alternately, each separated from the other by a slight column
of gold, and surrounded by a multitude of arabesques and garlands.
Exactly opposite to the gate appeared a vestibule, thrown a little
forward from the building, and surmounted by four large bow windows,
supported on trimmers, the corbels of which represented a thousand
strange gilt faces, looking out from a screen of olive branches, cast
in lead and painted green; while various tall statues in silver armour
were ranged on each side, as guards to the entrance.
It was towards this sort of hall that Sir John Hardacre led poor
Constance de Grey, to whose heart all the gaiety and splendour of the
scene seemed but to communicate a more chilling sensation of
friendless loneliness; while the very gaze and whispering of the royal
servants, who had all known of her flight, and now witnessed her
return, made the quick blood mount into her beautiful cheek, as she
was hurried along by the brutal soldier, without any regard to her
feelings or compassion for her fears.
"You must wait here, Mistress Constance," said he, having led her into
the vestibule, which was full of yeomen and grooms, "while I go and
tell the right reverend father the lord cardinal that I have brought
you."
"Here!" exclaimed Constance, casting her eyes around; "surely you do
not mean me to wait here amongst the servants?"
"Why, where would you go?" demanded he, roughly: "I've no other place
to put you. Wait here, wait here, and mind you don't run away again."
Constance could support no more, and covering her face with her hands,
she burst into a violent flood of tears. At that moment a voice that
she knew struck her ear. "This to my cousin, sir!" exclaimed Lord
Darby, who had heard what passed as he descended a flight of stairs
which led away to the left; "this to my cousin, Sir John Hardacre! You
would do better to jump off the donjon of Rochester Castle than to
leave her here with lacqueys and footboys."
"And why should I not?" demanded the soldier, his eyes flashing fire.
"Mind your own affairs, my Lord Darby, and let me mind mine."
"You are an unfeeling old villain, sir!" answered the earl, passing
him and taking Constance by the hand. "Yes, sir! stare your fill! I
say you are an unfeeling villain, and neither knight nor gentleman."
The soldier laid his hand upon his sword and drew it half out of its
sheath. "Knock him down! knock him down!" cried a dozen voices. "The
precincts of the court! out with him! Have his hand off!" Sir John
Hardacre thrust his weapon back into the sheath, gazing, however,
grimly around, as if he would fain have used it upon some one.
"Your brutal violence, sir," said Lord Darby, "will bring upon you, if
you heed not, a worse punishment than I can inflict; yet you will not
find me, in a proper place, unwilling to give you a lesson on what is
due to a lady. Come, Constance, I will lead you to her highness, where
you will meet, I am sure, a kind reception. You, sir, do your errand
to my lord cardinal, who shall be informed by me of your noble and
knightly treatment of the Lady de Grey."
Thus saying, he led Constance through a long corridor to an
ante-chamber, wherein stood two of the queen's pages. Here Lord Darby
paused, and sent one of the attendants to request an audience, taking
the opportunity of the time they waited to soothe the mind of his fair
cousin by informing her of all that had passed in her absence, and
assuring her that the queen had ever been her warmest defender.
All the news that he gave her, yof course, took a heavy weight from
Constance's mind; and drying her eyes, she congratulated him gladly on
his approaching marriage, and would fain, very fain, have asked if he
could give her any such consolatory information in regard to Darnley;
but the earl had never once mentioned his name, and she knew not how
to begin the subject herself. While considering, and hesitating
whether to ask boldly or not, the queen's page returned and ushered
them to her presence. Constance was still much agitated, and even the
kind and dignified sweetness, the motherly tenderness, with which
Katherine received her--a tenderness which she had not known for so
long--overcame her, and she wept as much as if she had been most
unhappy.
The queen understood it all, and sending Lord Darby away, she soon won
Constance to her usual placid mood; and then, questioning her of all
the dangers and sorrows she had undergone, she gave her the best of
all balms, sympathy; trembling at her account of the shipwreck, and
melted even to tears by the death of the good clergyman.