remain apart, but her longing to see Brandon grew stronger as the
prospect of it grew less, and she became angry that it could not be
gratified. Jane was right; an unsatisfied desire with Mary was
torture. Even her sense of the great distance between them had begun
to fade, and when she so wished for him and he did not come, their
positions seemed to be reversed. At the end of the third day she sent
for him to come to her rooms, but he, by a mighty effort, sent back a
brief note saying that he could not and ought not to go. This, of
course, threw Mary into a great passion, for she judged him by
herself--a very common but dangerous method of judgment--and thought
that if he felt at all as she did, he would throw prudence to the
winds and come to her, as she knew she would go to him if she could.
It did not occur to her that Brandon knew himself well enough to be
sure he would never go to New Spain if he allowed another grain of
temptation to fall into the balance against him, but would remain in
London to love hopelessly, to try to win a hopeless cause, and end it
all by placing his head upon the block.
It required all his strength, even now, to hold fast his determination
to go to New Spain. He had reached his limit. He had a fund of that
most useful of all wisdom, knowledge of self, and knew his
limitations; a little matter concerning which nine men out of ten go
all their lives in blissless ignorance.
Mary, who was no more given to self-analysis than her pet linnet, did
not appreciate Brandon's potent reasons, and was in a flaming passion
when she received his answer. Rage and humiliation completely
smothered, for the time, her affection, and she said to herself, over
and over again: "I hate the low-born wretch. Oh! to think what I have
permitted!" And tears of shame and repentance came in a flood, as they
have come from yielding woman's eyes since the world was born. Then
she began to doubt his motives. As long as she thought she had given
her gift to one who offered a responsive passion, she was glad and
proud of what she had done, but she had heard of man's pretense in
order to cozen woman out of her favors, and she began to think she had
been deceived. To her the logic seemed irresistible; that if the same
motive lived in his heart, and prompted him, that burned in her
breast, and induced her, who was virgin to her very heart-core, and
whose hand had hardly before been touched by the hand of man, to give
so much, no power of prudence could keep him away from her. So she
concluded she had given her gold for his dross. This conclusion was
more easily arrived at owing to the fact that she had never been
entirely sure of the state of his heart. There had always been a
love-exciting grain of doubt; and when the thought came to her that
she had been obliged to ask him to tell her of his affection, and that
the advances had really all been made by her, that confirmed her
suspicions. It seemed only too clear that she had been too quick to
give--no very comforting thought to a proud girl, even though a
mistaken one.
[Illustration]
As the days went by and Brandon did not come, her anger cooled, as
usual, and again her heart began to ache; but her sense of injury grew
stronger day by day, and she thought she was, beyond a doubt, the most
ill-used of women.
The other matter I wish to tell you is, that the negotiations for
Mary's marriage with old Louis XII of France were beginning to be an
open secret about the court. The Duc de Longueville, who had been held
by Henry for some time as a sort of hostage from the French king, had
opened negotiations by inflaming the flickering passions of old Louis
with descriptions of Mary's beauty. As there was a prospect of a new
emperor soon, and as the imperial bee had of late been making a most
vehement buzzing in Henry's bonnet, he encouraged de Longueville, and
thought it would be a good time to purchase the help of France at the
cost of his beautiful sister and a handsome dower. Mary, of course,
had not been consulted, and although she had coaxed her brother out of
other marriage projects, Henry had gone about this as if he were in
earnest, and it was thought throughout the court that Mary's coaxings
would be all in vain--a fear which she herself had begun to share,
notwithstanding her usual self-confidence.
She hated the thought of the marriage, and dreaded it as she would
death itself, though she said nothing to any one but Jane, and was
holding her forces in reserve for the grand attack. She was preparing
the way by being very sweet and kind to Henry.
Now, all of this, coming upon the heels of her trouble with Brandon,
made her most wretched indeed. For the first time in her life she
began to feel suffering; that great broadener, in fact, maker, of
human character.
Above all, there was an alarming sense of uncertainty in everything.
She could hardly bring herself to believe that Brandon would really go
to New Spain, and that she would actually lose him, although she did
not want him, as yet; that is, as a prospective husband. Flashes of
all sorts of wild schemes had begun to shoot through her anger and
grief when she stared in the face the prospect of her double
separation from him--her marriage to another, and the countless miles
of fathomless sea that would be between them. She could endure
anything better than uncertainty. A menacing future is the keenest of
all tortures for any of us to bear, but especially for a girl like
Mary. Death itself is not so terrible as the fear of it.
Now about this time there lived over in Billingsgate Ward--the worst
part of London--a Jewish soothsayer named Grouche. He was also an
astrologer, and had of late grown into great fame as prophet of the
future--a fortune-teller.
His fame rested on several remarkable predictions which had been
fulfilled to the letter, and I really think the man had some wonderful
powers. They said he was half Jew, half gypsy, and, if there is
alchemy in the mixing of blood, that combination should surely produce
something peculiar. The city folk were said to have visited him in
great numbers, and, notwithstanding the priests and bishops all
condemned him as an imp of Satan and a follower of witchcraft, many
fine people, including some court ladies, continued to go there by
stealth in order to take a dangerous, inquisitive peep into the
future. I say by stealth; because his ostensible occupation of
soothsaying and fortune-telling was not his only business. His house
was really a place of illicit meeting, and the soothsaying was often
but an excuse for going there. Lacking this ostensible occupation, he
would not have been allowed to keep his house within the wall, but
would have been relegated to his proper place--Bridge Ward Without.
Mary had long wanted to see this Grouche, at first out of mere
curiosity; but Henry, who was very moral--with other people's
consciences--would not think of permitting it. Two ladies, Lady
Chesterfield and Lady Ormond, both good and virtuous women, had been
detected in such a visit, and had been disgraced and expelled from
court in the most cruel manner by order of the king himself.
Now, added to Mary's old-time desire to see Grouche, came a longing to
know the outcome of the present momentous complication of affairs that
touched her so closely.
She could not wait for Time to unfold himself, and drop his budget of
events as he traveled, but she must plunge ahead of him, and know,
beforehand, the stores of the fates--an intrusion they usually resent.
I need not tell you that was Mary's only object in going, nor that her
heart was as pure as a babe's--quite as chaste and almost as innocent.
It is equally true that the large proportion of persons who visited
Grouche made his soothsaying an excuse. The thought of how wretched
life would be with Louis had put into Mary's mind the thought of how
sweet it would be with Brandon. Then came the wish that Brandon had
been a prince, or even a great English nobleman; and then leaped up,
all rainbow-hued, the hope that he might yet, by reason of his own
great virtues, rise to all of these, and she become his wife. But at
the threshold of this fair castle came knocking the thought that
perhaps he did not care for her, and had deceived her to gain her
favors. Then she flushed with anger and swore to herself she hated
him, and hoped never to see his face again. And the castle faded and
was wafted away to the realms of airy nothingness.
Ah! how people will sometimes lie to themselves; and sensible people
at that.
So Mary wanted to see Grouche; first, through curiosity, in itself a
stronger motive than we give it credit for; second, to learn if she
would be able to dissuade Henry from the French marriage and perhaps
catch a hint how to do it; and last, but by no means least, to
discover the state of Brandon's heart toward her.
By this time the last-named motive was strong enough to draw her any
whither, although she would not acknowledge it, even to herself, and
in truth hardly knew it; so full are we of things we know not of.
So she determined to go to see Grouche secretly, and was confident she
could arrange the visit in such a way that it would never be
discovered.
One morning I met Jane, who told me, with troubled face, that she and
Mary were going to London to make some purchases, would lodge at
Bridewell House, and go over to Billingsgate that evening to consult
Grouche. Mary had taken the whim into her wilful head, and Jane could
not dissuade her.
The court was all at Greenwich, and nobody at Bridewell, so Mary
thought they could disguise themselves as orange girls and easily make
the trip without any one being the wiser.
It was then, as now, no safe matter for even a man to go unattended
through the best parts of London after dark, to say nothing of
Billingsgate, that nest of water-rats and cut-throats. But Mary did
not realize the full danger of the trip, and would, as usual, allow
nobody to tell her.
She had threatened Jane with all sorts of vengeance if she divulged
her secret, and Jane was miserable enough between her fears on either
hand; for Mary, though the younger, held her in complete subjection.
Despite her fear of Mary, Jane asked me to go to London and follow
them at a distance, unknown to the princess. I was to be on duty that
night at a dance given in honor of the French envoys who had just
arrived, bringing with them commission of special ambassador to de
Longueville to negotiate the treaty of marriage, and it was impossible
for me to go. Mary was going partly to avoid this ball, and her wilful
persistency made Henry very angry. I regretted that I could not go,
but I promised Jane I would send Brandon in my place, and he would
answer the purpose of protection far better than I. I suggested that
Brandon take with him a man, but Jane, who was in mortal fear of Mary,
would not listen to it. So it was agreed that Brandon should meet Jane
at a given place and learn the particulars, and this plan was carried
out.
Brandon went up to London and saw Jane, and before the appointed time
hid himself behind a hedge near the private gate through which the
girls intended to take their departure from Bridewell.
They would leave about dusk and return, so Mary said, before it grew
dark.
The citizens of London at that time paid very little attention to the
law requiring them to hang out their lights, and when it was dark it
_was_ dark.
Scarcely was Brandon safely ensconced behind a clump of arbor vitæ
when whom should he see coming down the path toward the gate but his
grace, the Duke of Buckingham. He was met by one of the Bridewell
servants who was in attendance upon the princess.
"Yes, your grace, this is the gate," said the girl. "You can hide
yourself and watch them as they go. They will pass out on this path.
As I said, I do not know where they are going; I only overheard them
say they would go out at this gate just before dark. I am sure they go
on some errand of gallantry, which your grace will soon learn, I make
no doubt."
He replied that he "would take care of that."
Brandon did not see where Buckingham hid himself, but soon the two
innocent adventurers came down the path, attired in the short skirts
and bonnets of orange girls, and let themselves out at the gate.
Buckingham followed them and Brandon quickly followed him. The girls
passed through a little postern in the wall opposite Bridewell House,
and walked rapidly up Fleet Ditch; climbed Ludgate Hill; passed Paul's
church; turned toward the river down Bennett Hill; to the left on
Thames street; then on past the Bridge, following Lower Thames street
to the neighborhood of Fish-street Hill, where they took an alley
leading up toward East Cheap to Grouche's house.
It was a brave thing for the girl to do, and showed the determined
spirit that dwelt in her soft white breast. Aside from the real
dangers, there was enough to deter any woman, I should think.
Jane wept all the way over, but Mary never flinched.
There were great mud-holes where one sank ankle-deep, for no one paved
the street at that time, strangely enough preferring to pay the
sixpence fine per square yard for leaving it undone. At one place,
Brandon told me, a load of hay blocked the streets, compelling them to
squeeze between the houses and the hay. He could hardly believe the
girls had passed that way, as he had not always been able to keep them
in view, but had sometimes to follow them by watching Buckingham. He,
however, kept as close as possible, and presently saw them turn down
Grouche's alley and enter his house.
Upon learning where they had stopped, Buckingham hurriedly took
himself off, and Brandon waited for the girls to come out. It seemed a
very long time that they were in the wretched place, and darkness had
well descended upon London when they emerged.
Mary soon noticed that a man was following them, and as she did not
know who he was, became greatly alarmed. The object of her journey had
been accomplished now, so the spur of a strong motive to keep her
courage up was lacking.
"Jane, some one is following us," she whispered.
"Yes," answered Jane, with an unconcern that surprised Mary, for she
knew Jane was a coward from the top of her brown head to the tip of
her little pink heels.
"Oh, if I had only taken your advice, Jane, and had never come to this
wretched place; and to think, too, that I came here only to learn the
worst. Shall we ever get home alive, do you think?"
They hurried on, the man behind them taking less care to remain unseen
than he did when coming. Mary's fears grew upon her as she heard his
step and saw his form persistently following them, and she clutched
Jane by the arm.
"It is all over with us, I know. I would give everything I have or
ever expect to have on earth for--for Master Brandon at this moment."
She thought of him as the one person best able to defend her.
This was only too welcome an opportunity, and Jane said: "That is
Master Brandon following us. If we wait a few seconds he will be
here," and she called to him before Mary could interpose.
Now this disclosure operated in two ways. Brandon's presence was, it
is true, just what Mary had so ardently wished, but the danger, and,
therefore, the need, was gone when she found that the man who was
following them had no evil intent. Two thoughts quickly flashed
through the girl's mind. She was angry with Brandon for having cheated
her out of so many favors and for having slighted her love, as she had
succeeded in convincing herself was the case, all of which Grouche had
confirmed by telling her he was false. Then she had been discovered in
doing what she knew she should have left undone, and what she was
anxious to conceal from every one; and, worst of all, had been
discovered by the very person from whom she was most anxious to hide
it.
So she turned upon Jane angrily: "Jane Bolingbroke, you shall leave me
as soon as we get back to Greenwich for this betrayal of my
confidence."
She was not afraid now that the danger was over, and feared no new
danger with Brandon at hand to protect her, for in her heart she felt
that to overcome a few fiery dragons and a company or so of giants
would be a mere pastime to him; yet see how she treated him. The girls
had stopped when Jane called Brandon, and he was at once by their side
with uncovered head, hoping for, and, of course, expecting, a warm
welcome. But even Brandon, with his fund of worldly philosophy, had
not learned not to put his trust in princesses, and his surprise was
benumbing when Mary turned angrily upon him.
"Master Brandon, your impudence in following us shall cost you dearly.
We do not desire your company, and will thank you to leave us to our
own affairs, as we wish you to attend exclusively to yours."
This from the girl who had given him so much within less than a week!
Poor Brandon!
Jane, who had called him up, and was the cause of his following them,
began to weep.
"Sir," said she, "forgive me; it was not my fault; she had just
said--" Slap! came Mary's hand on Jane's mouth; and Jane was marched
off, weeping bitterly.
The girls had started up toward East Cheap when they left Grouche's,
intending to go home by an upper route, and now they walked rapidly in
that direction. Brandon continued to follow them, notwithstanding what
Mary had said, and she thanked him and her God ever after that he did.
They had been walking not more than five minutes, when, just as the
girls turned a corner into a secluded little street, winding its way
among the fish warehouses, four horsemen passed Brandon in evident
pursuit of them. Brandon hurried forward, but before he reached the
corner heard screams of fright, and as he turned into the street
distinctly saw that two of the men had dismounted and were trying to
overtake the fleeing girls. Fright lent wings to their feet, and their
short skirts affording freedom to their limbs, they were giving the
pursuers a warm little race, screaming at every step to the full limit
of their voices. How they did run and scream! It was but a moment till
Brandon came up with the pursuers, who, all unconscious that they in
turn were pursued, did not expect an attack from the rear. The men
remaining on horseback shouted an alarm to their comrades, but so
intent were the latter in their pursuit that they did not hear. One of
the men on foot fell dead, pierced through the back of the neck by
Brandon's sword, before either was aware of his presence. The other
turned, but was a corpse before he could cry out. The girls had
stopped a short distance ahead, exhausted by their flight. Mary had
stumbled and fallen, but had risen again, and both were now leaning
against a wall, clinging to each other, a picture of abject terror.
Brandon ran to the girls, but by the time he reached them the two men
on horseback were there also, hacking away at him from their saddles.
Brandon did his best to save himself from being cut to pieces and the
girls from being trampled under foot by the prancing horses. A narrow
jutting of the wall, a foot or two in width, a sort of flying
buttress, gave him a little advantage, and up into the slight shelter
of the corner thus formed he thrust the girls, and with his back to
them, faced his unequal foe with drawn sword. Fortunately the position
allowed only one horse to attack them. Two men on foot would have been
less in each other's way and much more effective. The men, however,
stuck to their horses, and one of them pressed the attack, striking at
Brandon most viciously. It being dark, and the distance deceptive, the
horseman's sword at last struck the wall, a flash of sparks flying in
its trail, and lucky it was, or this story would have ended here.
Thereupon Brandon thrust his sword into the horse's throat, causing it
to rear backward, plunging and lunging into the street, where it fell,
holding its rider by the leg against the cobble-stones of a little
gutter.
A cry from the fallen horseman brought his companion to his side, and
gave Brandon an opportunity to escape with the girls. Of this he took
advantage, you may be sure, for one of his mottoes was, that the
greatest fool in the world is he who does not early in life learn how
and when to run.
In the light of the sparks from the sword-stroke upon the wall, brief
as it was, Brandon recognized the face of Buckingham, from which the
mask had fallen. Of this he did not speak to any one till long
afterward, and his silence was almost his undoing.
How often a word spoken or unspoken may have the very deuce in it
either way!
The girls were nearly dead from fright, and in order to make any sort
of progress Brandon had to carry the princess and help Jane until he
thought they were out of danger. Jane soon recovered, but Mary did not
seem anxious to walk, and lay with her head upon Brandon's shoulder,
apparently contented enough.
In a few minutes Jane said, "If you can walk now, my lady, I think you
had better. We shall soon be near Fishmonger's Hall, where some one is
sure to be standing at this hour."
Mary said nothing in reply to Jane, but, as Brandon fell a step or two
behind at a narrow crossing, whispered:
"Forgive me, forgive me; I will do any penance you ask; I am unworthy
to speak your name. I owe you my life and more--and more a thousand
times." At this she lifted her arm and placed her hand upon his cheek
and neck. She then learned for the first time that he was wounded, and
the tears came softly as she slipped from his arms to the ground. She
walked beside him quietly for a little time, then, taking his hand in
both of hers, gently lifted it to her lips and laid it upon her
breast. Half an hour afterward Brandon left the girls at Bridewell
House, went over to the Bridge where he had left his horse at a
hostelry, and rode down to Greenwich.
So Mary had made her trip to Grouche's, but it was labor worse than
lost. Grouche had told her nothing she wanted to know, though much
that he supposed she would like to learn. He had told her she had many
lovers, a fact which her face and form would make easy enough to
discover. He informed her also that she had a low-born lover, and in
order to put a little evil in with the good fortune, and give what he
said an air of truth, he added to Mary's state of unrest more than he
thought by telling her that her low-born lover was false. He thought
to flatter her by predicting that she would soon marry a very great
prince or nobleman, the indications being in favor of the former, and,
in place of this making her happy, she wished the wretched soothsayer
in the bottomless pit--he and all his prophecies; herself, too, for
going to him. His guesses were pretty shrewd; that is, admitting he
did not know who Mary was, which she at least supposed was the case.
So Mary wept that night and moaned and moaned because she had gone to
Grouche's. It had added infinitely to the pain of which her heart was
already too full, and made her thoroughly wretched and unhappy. As
usual though, with the blunders of stubborn, self-willed people, some
one else had to pay the cost of her folly. Brandon was paymaster in
this case, and when you see how dearly he paid, and how poorly she
requited the debt, I fear you will despise her. Wait, though! Be not
hasty. The right of judgment belongs to--you know whom. No man knows
another man's heart, much less a woman's, so how can he judge? We
shall all have more than enough of judging by and by. So let us put
off for as many to-morrows as possible the thing that should be left
undone to-day.
_CHAPTER IX_
_Put not your Trust in Princesses_
I thought the king's dance that night would never end, so fond were
the Frenchmen of our fair ladies, and I was more than anxious to see
Brandon and learn the issue of the girls' escapade, as I well knew the
danger attending it.
All things, however, must end, so early in the morning I hastened to
our rooms, where I found Brandon lying in his clothes, everything
saturated with blood from a dozen sword cuts. He was very weak, and I
at once had in a barber, who took off his shirt of mail and dressed
his wounds. He then dropped into a deep sleep, while I watched the
night out. Upon awakening Brandon told me all that had happened, but
asked me to say nothing of his illness, as he wished to keep the fact
of his wounds secret in order that he might better conceal the cause
of them. But, as I told you, he did not speak of Buckingham's part in
the affray.