chapel at Windsor; so he took a number of the court, including Mary,
Jane, Brandon and myself, and went with us up to London, where we
lodged over night at Bridewell House. The next morning--as bright and
beautiful a June day as ever gladdened the heart of a rose--we took
horse for Windsor; a delightful seven-league ride over a fair road.
Mary and Jane traveled side by side, with an occasional companion or
two, as the road permitted. I was angry with Jane, as you know, so did
not go near the girls; and Brandon, without any apparent intention one
way or the other, allowed events to adjust themselves, and rode with
Cavendish and me.
We were perhaps forty yards behind the girls, and I noticed after a
time that the Lady Mary kept looking backward in our direction, as if
fearing rain from the east. I was in hopes that Jane, too, would fear
the rain, but you would have sworn her neck was stiff, so straight
ahead did she keep her face. We had ridden perhaps three leagues, when
the princess stopped her horse and turned in her saddle. I heard her
voice, but did not understand what she said.
In a moment some one called out: "Master Brandon is wanted." So that
gentleman rode forward, and I followed him. When we came up with the
girls, Mary said: "I fear my girth is loose."
Brandon at once dismounted to tighten it, and the others of our
immediate party began to cluster around.
Brandon tried the girth.
"My lady, it is as tight as the horse can well bear," he said.
"It is loose, I say," insisted the princess, with a little irritation;
"the saddle feels like it. Try the other." Then turning impatiently to
the persons gathered around: "Does it require all of you, standing
there like gaping bumpkins, to tighten my girth? Ride on; we can
manage this without so much help." Upon this broad hint everybody rode
ahead while I held the horse for Brandon, who went on with his search
for the loose girth. While he was looking for it Mary leaned over her
horse's neck and asked: "Were you and Cavendish settling all the
philosophical points now in dispute, that you found him so
interesting?"
"Not all," answered Brandon, smiling.
"You were so absorbed, I supposed it could be nothing short of that."
"No," replied Brandon again. "But the girth is not loose."
"Perhaps I only imagined it," returned Mary carelessly, having lost
interest in the girth.
I looked toward Jane, whose eyes were bright with a smile, and turned
Brandon's horse over to him. Jane's smile gradually broadened into a
laugh, and she said: "Edwin, I fear my girth is loose also."
"As the Lady Mary's was?" asked I, unable to keep a straight face any
longer.
"Yes," answered Jane, with a vigorous little nod of her head, and a
peal of laughter.
"Then drop back with me," I responded.
The princess looked at us with a half smile, half frown, and remarked:
"Now you doubtless consider yourselves very brilliant and witty."
"Yes," returned Jane maliciously, nodding her head in emphatic assent,
as the princess and Brandon rode on before us.
"I hope she is satisfied now," said Jane _sotto voce_ to me.
"So you want me to ride with you?" I replied.
"Yes," nodded Jane.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I want you to," was the enlightening response.
"Then why did you not dance with me the other evening?"
"Because I did _not_ want to."
"Short but comprehensive," thought I, "but a sufficient reason for a
maiden."
I said nothing, however, and after a time Jane spoke: "The dance was
one thing and riding with you is another. I did not wish to dance with
you, but I do wish to ride with you. You are the only gentleman to
whom I would have said what I did about my girth being loose. As to
the new dance, I do not care to learn it because I would not dance it
with any man but you, and not even with you--yet." This made me glad,
and coming from coy, modest Jane meant a great deal. It meant that
she cared for me, and would, some day, be mine; but it also meant that
she would take her own time and her own sweet way in being won. This
was comforting, if not satisfying, and loosened my tongue: "Jane, you
know my heart is full of love for you--"
"Will the universe crumble?" she cried with the most provoking little
laugh. Now that sentence was my rock ahead, whenever I tried to give
Jane some idea of the state of my affections. It was a part of the
speech which I had prepared and delivered to Mary in Jane's hearing,
as you already know. I had said to the princess: "The universe will
crumble and the heavens roll up as a scroll ere my love shall alter or
pale." It was a high-sounding sentence, but it was not true, as I was
forced to admit, almost with the same breath that spoke it. Jane had
heard it, and had stored it away in that memory of hers, so tenacious
in holding to everything it should forget. It is wonderful what a fund
of useless information some persons accumulate and cling to with a
persistent determination worthy of a better cause. I thought Jane
never would forget that unfortunate, abominable sentence spoken so
grandiloquently to Mary. I wonder what she would have thought had she
known that I had said substantially the same thing to a dozen others.
I never should have won her in that case. She does not know it yet,
and never shall if I can prevent. Although dear Jane is old now, and
the roses on her cheeks have long since paled, her gray eyes are still
there, with their mischievous little twinkle upon occasion, and--in
fact, Jane can be as provoking as ever when she takes the fancy, for
she is as sure of my affection now as upon the morning of that rare
ride to Windsor. Aye, surer, since she knows that in all these years
it has changed only to grow greater and stronger and truer in the
fructifying light of her sweet face, and the nurturing warmth of her
pure soul. What a blessed thing it is for a man to love his wife and
be satisfied with her, and to think her the fairest being in all the
world; and how thrice happy is he who can stretch out the sweetest
season of his existence, the days of triumphant courtship, through the
flying years of all his life, and then lie down to die in the quieted
ecstasy of a first love.
So Jane halted my effort to pour out my heart, as she always did.
"There is something that greatly troubles me," she said.
"What is it?" I asked in some concern.
"My mistress," she answered, nodding in the direction of the two
riding ahead of us. "I never saw her so much interested in any one as
she is in your friend, Master Brandon. Not that she is really in love
with him as yet perhaps, but I fear it is coming and I dread to see
it. She has never been compelled to forego anything she wanted, and
her desires are absolutely imperative. They drive her, and she is
helpless against them. She would not and could not make the smallest
effort to overcome them. I think it never occurred to her that such a
thing could be necessary; everything she wants she naturally thinks is
hers by divine right. There has been no great need of such an effort
until now, but your friend Brandon presents it. I wish he were at the
other side of the world. I think she feels that she ought to keep away
from him before it is too late, both for his sake and her own, but she
is powerless to deny herself the pleasure of being with him, and I do
not know what is to come of it all. That incident of the loose girth
is an illustration. Did you ever know anything so bold and
transparent? Any one could see through it, and the worst of all is she
seems not to care if every one does see. Now look at them ahead of us!
No girl is so happy riding beside a man unless she is interested in
him. She was dull enough until he joined her. He seemed in no hurry to
come, so she resorted to the flimsy excuse of the loose girth to bring
him. I am surprised that she even sought the shadow of an excuse, but
did not order him forward without any pretense of one. Oh! I don't
know what to do. It troubles me greatly. Do you know the state of his
feelings?"
"No," I answered, "but I think he is heart-whole, or nearly so. He
told me he was not fool enough to fall in love with the king's sister,
and I really believe he will keep his heart and head, even at that
dizzy height. He is a cool fellow, if there ever was one."
"He certainly is different from other men," returned Jane. "I think he
has never spoken a word of love to her. He has said some pretty
things, which she has repeated to me; has moralized to some extent,
and has actually told her of some of her faults. I should like to see
anyone else take that liberty. She seems to like it from him, and says
he inspires her with higher, better motives and a yearning to be good;
but I am sure he has made no love to her."
"Perhaps it would be better if he did. It might cure her," I replied.
"Oh! no! no! not now; at first, perhaps, but not now. What I fear is
that if he remains silent much longer she will take matters in hand
and speak herself. I don't like to say that--it doesn't sound
well--but she is a princess, and it would be different with her from
what it would be with an ordinary girl; she might have to speak first,
or there might be no speaking from one who thought his position too
far beneath hers. She whose smallest desires drive her so, will never
forego so great a thing as the man she loves only for the want of a
word or two."
Then it was that Jane told me of the scene with the note, of the
little whispered confidence upon their pillows, and a hundred other
straws that showed only too plainly which way this worst of ill winds
was blowing--with no good in it for any one. Now who could have
foretold this? It was easy enough to prophesy that Brandon would learn
to love Mary, excite a passing interest, and come off crestfallen, as
all other men had done. But that Mary should love Brandon, and he
remain heart-whole, was an unlooked-for event--one that would hardly
have been predicted by the shrewdest prophet.
What Lady Jane said troubled me greatly, as it was but the
confirmation of my own fears. Her opportunity to know was far better
than mine, but I had seen enough to set me thinking.
Brandon, I believe, saw nothing of Mary's growing partiality at all.
He could not help but find her wonderfully attractive and interesting,
and perhaps it needed only the thought that she might love him, to
kindle a flame in his own breast. But at the time of our ride to
Windsor, Charles Brandon was not in love with Mary Tudor, however near
it he may unconsciously have been. He would whistle and sing, and was
as light-hearted as a lark--I mean when away from the princess as well
as with her--a mood that does not go with a heart full of heavy love,
of impossible, fatal love, such as his would have been for the first
princess of the first blood royal of the world.
But another's trouble could not dim the sunlight in my own heart, and
that ride to Windsor was the happiest day of my life up to that time.
Even Jane threw off the little cloud our forebodings had gathered,
and chatted and laughed like the creature of joy and gladness she was.
Now and then her heart would well up so full of the sunlight and the
flowers, and the birds in the hedge, aye, and of the contagious love
in my heart, too, that it poured itself forth in a spontaneous little
song which thrills me even now.
Ahead of us were the princess and Brandon. Every now and then her
voice came back to us in a stave of a song, and her laughter, rich and
low, wafted on the wings of the soft south wind, made the glad birds
hush to catch its silvery note. It seemed that the wild flowers had
taken on their brightest hue, the trees their richest Sabbath-day
green, and the sun his softest radiance, only to gladden the heart of
Mary that they might hear her laugh. The laugh would have come quite
as joyously had the flowers been dead and the sun black, for flowers
and sunlight, south wind, green pastures and verdant hills, all were
riding by her side. Poor Mary! Her days of laughter were numbered.
We all rode merrily on to Windsor, and when we arrived it was curious
to see the great nobles, Buckingham, both the Howards, Seymour and a
dozen others stand back for plain Charles Brandon to dismount the
fairest maiden and the most renowned princess in Christendom. It was
done most gracefully. She was but a trifle to his strong arms, and he
lifted her to the sod as gently as if she were a child. The nobles
envied Brandon his evident favor with this unattainable Mary and hated
him accordingly, but they kept their thoughts to themselves for two
reasons: First, they knew not to what degree the king's favor, already
marked, with the help of the princess might carry him; and second,
they did not care to have a misunderstanding with the man who had cut
out Adam Judson's eyes.
We remained at Windsor four or five days, during which time the king
made several knights. Brandon would probably have been one of them, as
everybody expected, had not Buckingham related to Henry the episode of
the loose girth, and adroitly poisoned his mind as to Mary's
partiality. At this the king began to cast a jealous eye on Brandon.
His sister was his chief diplomatic resource, and when she loved or
married, it should be for Henry's benefit, regardless of all else.
Brandon and the Lady Mary saw a great deal of each other during this
little stay at Windsor, as she always had some plan to bring about a
meeting, and although very delightful to him, it cost him much in
royal favor. He could not trace this effect to its proper cause and it
troubled him. I could have told him the reason in two words, but I
feared to put into his mind the thought that the princess might learn
to love him. As to the king, he would not have cared if Brandon or
every other man, for that matter, should go stark mad for love of his
sister, but when she began to show a preference he grew interested,
and it was apt sooner or later to go hard with the fortunate one. When
we went back to Greenwich Brandon was sent on a day ahead.
_CHAPTER VII_
_Love's Fierce Sweetness_
After we had all returned to Greenwich the princess and Brandon were
together frequently. Upon several occasions he was invited, with
others, to her parlor for card playing. But we spent two evenings,
with only four of us present, prior to the disastrous events which
changed everything, and of which I am soon to tell you. During these
two evenings the "Sailor Lass" was in constant demand.
This pair, who should have remained apart, met constantly in and about
the palace, and every glance added fuel to the flame. Part of the time
it was the princess with her troublesome dignity, and part of the time
it was Mary--simply girl. Notwithstanding these haughty moods, anyone
with half an eye could see that the princess was gradually succumbing
to the budding woman; that Brandon's stronger nature had dominated her
with that half fear which every woman feels who loves a strong
man--stronger than herself.
One day the rumor spread through the court that the old French king,
Louis XII, whose wife, Anne of Brittany, had just died, had asked
Mary's hand in marriage. It was this, probably, which opened Brandon's
eyes to the fact that he had been playing with the very worst sort of
fire; and first made him see that in spite of himself, and almost
without his knowledge, the girl had grown wonderfully sweet and dear
to him. He now saw his danger, and struggled to keep himself beyond
the spell of her perilous glances and siren song. This modern Ulysses
made a masterful effort, but alas! had no ships to carry him away, and
no wax with which to fill his ears. Wax is a good thing, and no one
should enter the Siren country without it. Ships, too, are good, with
masts to tie one's self to, and sails and rudder, and a gust of wind
to waft one quickly past the island. In fact, one cannot take too many
precautions when in those enchanted waters.
Matters began to look dark to me. Love had dawned in Mary's breast,
that was sure, and for the first time, with all its fierce sweetness.
Not that it had reached its noon, or anything like it. In truth, it
might, I hoped, die in the dawning, for my lady was as capricious as a
May day; but it was love--love as plain as the sun at rising. She
sought Brandon upon all occasions, and made opportunities to meet him;
not openly--at any rate, not with Brandon's knowledge, nor with any
connivance on his part, but apparently caring little what he or any
one else might see. Love lying in her heart had made her a little more
shy than formerly in seeking him, but her straightforward way of
taking whatever she wanted made her transparent little attempts at
concealment very pathetic.
As for Brandon, the shaft had entered his heart, too, poor fellow, as
surely as love had dawned in Mary's, but there was this difference:
With our princess--at least I so thought at the time--the sun of love
might dawn and lift itself to mid-heaven and glow with the fervent
ardor of high noon--for her blood was warm with the spark of her
grandfather's fire--and then sink into the west and make room for
another sun to-morrow. But with Brandon's stronger nature the sun
would go till noon and there would burn for life. The sun, however,
had not reached its noon with Brandon, either; since he had set his
brain against his heart, and had done what he could to stay the
all-consuming orb at its dawning. He knew the hopeless misery such a
passion would bring him, and helped the good Lord, in so far as he
could, to answer his prayer, and lead him not into temptation. As soon
as he saw the truth, he avoided Mary as much as possible.
As I said, we had spent several evenings with Mary after we came home
from Windsor, at all of which her preference was shown in every
movement. Some women are so expressive under strong emotion that every
gesture, a turn of the head, a glance of the eyes, the lifting of a
hand or the poise of the body, speaks with a tongue of eloquence, and
such was Mary. Her eyes would glow with a soft fire when they rested
upon him, and her whole person told all too plainly what, in truth, it
seemed she did not care to hide. When others were present she would
restrain herself somewhat, but with only Jane and myself, she could
hardly maintain a seemly reserve. During all this time Brandon
remained cool and really seemed unconscious of his wonderful
attraction for her. It is hard to understand why he did not see it,
but I really believe he did not. Although he was quite at ease in her
presence, too much so, Mary sometimes thought, and strangely enough
sometimes told him in a fit of short-lived, quickly repented anger
that always set him laughing, yet there was never a word or gesture
that could hint of undue familiarity. It would probably have met a
rebuff from the princess part of her; for what a perversity, both
royal and feminine, she wanted all the freedom for herself. In short,
like any other woman, she would rather love than be loved, that is,
until surrender day should come; then of course....
After these last two meetings, although the invitations came
frequently, none was accepted. Brandon had contrived to have his
duties, ostensibly at least, occupy his evenings, and did honestly
what his judgment told him was the one thing to do; that is, remain
away from a fire that could give no genial warmth, but was sure to
burn him to the quick. I saw this only too plainly, but never a word
of it was spoken between us.
The more I saw of this man, the more I respected him, and this curbing
of his affections added to my already high esteem. The effort was
doubly wise in Brandon's case. Should love with his intense nature
reach its height, his recklessness would in turn assert itself, and
these two would inevitably try to span the impassable gulf between
them, when Brandon, at least, would go down in the attempt. His
trouble, however, did not make a mope of him, and he retained a great
deal of his brightness and sparkle undimmed by what must have been an
ache in his heart. Though he tried, without making it too marked, to
see as little of Mary as possible, their meeting once in a while could
not be avoided, especially when one of them was always seeking to
bring it about. After a time, Mary began to suspect his attempts to
avoid her, and she grew cold and distant through pique. Her manner,
however, had no effect upon Brandon, who did not, or at least appeared
not to notice it. This the girl could not endure, and lacking strength
to resist her heart, soon returned to the attack.
Mary had not seen Brandon for nearly two weeks, and was growing
anxious, when one day she and Jane met him in a forest walk near the
river. Brandon was sauntering along reading when they overtook him.
Jane told me afterwards that Mary's conduct upon coming up to him was
pretty and curious beyond the naming. At first she was inclined to be
distant, and say cutting things, but when Brandon began to grow
restive under them and showed signs of turning back, she changed front
in the twinkling of an eye and was all sweetness. She laughed and
smiled and dimpled, as only she could, and was full of bright glances
and gracious words.
She tried a hundred little schemes to get him to herself for a
moment--the hunting of a wild flower or a four-leaved clover, or the
exploration of some little nook in the forest toward which she would
lead him--but Jane did not at first take the hint and kept close at
her heels. Mary's impulsive nature was not much given to hinting--she
usually nodded and most emphatically at that--so after a few failures
to rid herself of her waiting lady she said impatiently: "Jane, in the
name of heaven don't keep so close to us. You won't move out of reach
of my hand, and you know how often it inclines to box your ears."
Jane did know, I am sorry for Mary's sake to say, how often the fair
hand was given to such spasms; so with this emphasized hint she walked
on ahead, half sulky at the indignity put upon her, and half amused at
her whimsical mistress.
Mary lost no time, but began the attack at once.
"Now, sir, I want you to tell me the truth; why do you refuse my
invitations and so persistently keep away from me? I thought at first
I would simply let you go your way, and then I thought I--would not.
Don't deny it. I know you won't. With all your faults, you don't tell
even little lies; not even to a woman--I believe. Now there is a fine
compliment--is it not?--when I intended to scold you!" She gave a
fluttering little laugh, and, with hanging head, continued: "Tell me,
is not the king's sister of quality sufficient to suit you? Perhaps
you must have the queen or the Blessed Virgin? Tell me now?" And she
looked up at him, half in banter, half in doubt.
"My duties--," began Brandon.
"Oh! bother your duties. Tell me the truth."
"I will, if you let me," returned Brandon, who had no intention
whatever of doing anything of the sort. "My duties now occupy my time
in the evening----"
"That will not do," interrupted Mary, who knew enough of a guardsman's
duty to be sure it was not onerous. "You might as well come to it and
tell the truth; that you do not like our society." And she gave him a
vicious little glance without a shadow of a smile.
"In God's name, Lady Mary, that is not it," answered Brandon, who was
on the rack. "Please do not think it. I cannot bear to have you say
such a thing when it is so far from the real truth."
"Then tell me the real truth."
"I cannot; I cannot. I beg of you not to ask. Leave me! or let me
leave you. I refuse to answer further." The latter half of this
sentence was uttered doggedly and sounded sullen and ill-humored,
although, of course, it was not so intended. He had been so perilously
near speaking words which would probably have lighted, to their
destruction--to his, certainly--the smoldering flames within their
breast that it frightened him, and the manner in which he spoke was
but a tone giving utterance to the pain in his heart.
Mary took it as it sounded, and, in unfeigned surprise, exclaimed
angrily: "Leave you? Do I hear aright? I never thought that I, the
daughter and sister of a king, would live to be dismissed by a--by
a--any one."
"Your highness--" began Brandon; but she was gone before he could
speak.
He did not follow her to explain, knowing how dangerous such an
explanation would be, but felt that it was best for them both that she
should remain offended, painful as the thought was to him.
Of course, Mary's womanly self-esteem, to say nothing of her royal
pride, was wounded to the quick, and no wonder.
Poor Brandon sat down upon a stone, and, as he longingly watched her
retiring form, wished in his heart he were dead. This was the first
time he really knew how much he loved the girl, and he saw that, with
him at least, it was a matter of bad to worse; and at that rate would
soon be--worst.