THE EARL OF SURREY
So love did vanish with my state,
Which now my soul repents too late;
Then, maids and wives, in time amend,
For love and beauty will have end.
BALLAD OF JANE SHORE.
Oh, it grieves my soul
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow maker!
SHAKSPEARE.
Seated in the rude gipsy-cart, guided, protected, by the uncouth being
into whose hands he had so strangely fallen, Richard, for the first
time, felt the degradation and low fortune to which his aspirations, at
variance with his means, made him liable. With a strong effort he
dismissed these painful ideas, and fixed his contemplation on mightier
objects, which gilded his mean estate, or were rather the "gold
o'erdusted" by such extraneous poverty. To rise from this lowliness to a
throne were an emprise worthy his ambition. Was he not a few hours ago a
prisoner in the terror-striking tower? And now he was free--free in his
England; which, when the battle-day was come and past, would claim him
for her own. A few words from Monina interrupted the silence: she sat at
his feet, and they conversed in whispers in Spanish. Night had gathered
round them; Monina, in all the innocence of her pure heart was supremely
happy: to be near her friend in his disasters, united to him in his
peril, was a more rapturous destiny to her than the world's best pomp,
and he absent. No busy conscience, no untoward thought disturbed in her
soul the calm of perfect bliss. She grew weary at last; her head sank on
Richard's knee, and, overworn with watching, she fell into a deep sleep.
Richard heard her regular breathing; once or twice his fingers played
among her dishevelled ringlets, while his heart whispered to him what a
wondrous creation woman was--weak, frail, complaining when she suffers
for herself; heroic fortitude and untired self-devotion are hers, when
she sacrifices herself for him she loves.
The cart moved on, Richard saw not whither; they almost stuck in some
flat, low fields, and at last arrived at a solitary, miserable hut.
Monina awoke, when they stopped, and the gipsy told them that this
wretched dwelling was to be their asylum: the apartment they entered was
poor beyond meanness--a bed of straw piled in one corner, a rude bench,
formed the furniture; the walls were ragged and weather-stained, and the
outer crumbling rafters were visible through the broken ceiling: there
appeared to be neither food nor fire. The inhabitant of the hovel alone
was there,--a white-looking, emaciated female; yet with a look of such
sweetness and patience, that she seemed the very enshrinement of
Christian resignation, the type of sorrow and suffering, married to meek
obedience to the supreme will. She had roused herself from slumber at
the voice of the gipsy, and gathered her scant garments around
her--scant and poor they were; her coarse woollen dress was tied by a
girdle of rope round her slender waist; her head was wrapped in a
kerchief; her feet were bare.
"Jane," said the old woman, "you will not refuse the shelter of your
roof to these poor wanderers?"
Such an address seemed strange, for the rich attire of her guests
ill-accorded with her poverty-stricken home; but she turned with a
smile--she spoke--and then a throb of agony seemed to convulse her
frame--her head swam; Richard rushed forward to prevent her falling,
but she shrunk from him, and leaned on the old woman, who said with a
look of triumph, "I knew how it would be; it is vain to hide a bright
light behind a veil of gauze! Yes, Jane, this is his son; and you may
save him from danger and death."
Jane Shore, the once lovely mistress of King Edward, now the miserable
outcast of the world's scorn, heard these words, as if they had been
spoken to her in a dream. After the death of her royal lover, she had
obeyed the impulse that made her cling to the soft luxuries of life, and
yielded to solicitations which tended to guard her from the sharp
visitation of the world. She had become the mistress of the marquess of
Dorset; but sorrow and penury were destined to pursue her in their worst
shape--and wherefore? She had been good and humane; and in spite of her
error, even the sternest moralist might have pitied her. But she was all
woman,--fearful of repulse, dreading insult; more willing to lie down
and die, than, fallen and miserable, to solicit uncertain relief:
squalid poverty, famine, and lonely suffering, were hers; yet in all she
preserved an unalterable sweetness of disposition, which painted her wan
face with, its own soft colouring.
The old woman went forth to seek for food, and the two friends were left
for several hours alone with Jane. She gazed affectionately on the
youthful duke; she looked more timidly on Monina, whose sex could not be
said to be disguised by her page's dress: the fallen woman fears women,
their self-sufficient virtues and cold reprobation; yet the sensibility
of Monina's countenance, and the soft expression of her eyes, so
all-powerful in their sweetness, could not be mistaken; and her first
shrinking from censure was exchanged for even a more painful feeling.
They were a lovely pair, these lone guests of poverty; innocence sat on
the brow of each, yet love beamed in their aspect:--love! the two-edged
sword, the flower-strewn poison, the dread cause of every misery! More
than famine and sickness Jane feared love; for with it in her mind were
linked shame and guilt, and the world's unkindness, hard to bear to one,
whose heart was "open as day to melting charity;" and she feared that
she saw in this sweet girl a bright reflex of her early days. Oh, might
the blotted mirror ne'er pourtray a change like hers! "I am a living
lesson of the woes of love," thought poor Jane; "may this chance-visit
to my hut, which saves young Richard's life, insure her innocence!" Thus
impelled, she spoke: she spoke of the danger of their solitary
companionship; she adjured York to fly the delusive charm--for love's
own sake he ought to fly; for if he made her his victim, affection would
be married to hate--joy to woe--her he prized to a skeleton, more grim
than death. Richard strove to interrupt her, but she misunderstood his
meaning; while Monina, somewhat bewildered, fancied that she only
alluded to the dangers she incurred in his cause, and with her own
beaming look cried, "Oh, mother, is it not better to suffer for one so
noble, than to live in the cold security of prosperity?"
"No, no," said Jane, "Oh, does my miserable fate cry aloud, no! Edward,
his father, was bright as he. Libertine he was called--I know not if
truly; but sincere was the affection he bore to me. He never changed or
faltered in the faith he promised, when he led me from the dull abode of
connubial strife to the bright home of love. Riches and the world's
pleasures were the least of his gifts, for he gave me himself and
happiness. Behold me now: twelve long years have passed, and I waste and
decay; the wedded wife of shame; famine, sorrow, and remorse, my sole
companions."
This language was too plain. The blood rushed into Monina's face. "Oh,
love him not," continued the hapless penitent; "fly his love, because he
is beautiful, good, noble, worthy--fly from him, and thus preserve him
yours for ever."
Monina quickly recovered herself; she interrupted her imprudent
monitress, and calmly assured her that her admonition, though
unnecessary, should not prove vain; and then both she and York exerted
themselves to engage Jane's attention on topics relative to his cause,
his hopes, his partizans, thus exciting her curiosity and interest.
Richard passed the whole of the following day in this abode of penury
and desolation. That day, indeed, was big with dire event. The morning
rose upon Stanley's death. In Jane's hut the hollow bell was heard that
tolled the fatal hour. The ear is sometimes the parent of a livelier
sense than any other of the soul's apprehensive portals. In Italy, for
three days in Passion week, the sound of every bell and of every clock
is suspended. On the noon of the day when the mystery of the
Resurrection is solemnized, they all burst forth in one glad peel. Every
Catholic kneels in prayer, and even the unimaginative Protestant feels
the influence of a religion which speaks so audibly. And, in this more
sombre land, the sad bell that tolls for death strikes more melancholy
to the heart than the plumed hearse or any other pageantry of woe. In
silence and fear the fugitives heard the funereal knell sweep across the
desolate fields, telling them that at that moment Stanley died.
Women nurse grief--dwell with it. Like poor Constance, they dress their
past joys in mourning raiment, and so abide with them. But the masculine
spirit struggles with suffering. How gladly, that very evening, did the
duke hail Frion's arrival, who, in the garb of a saintly pardoner, came
to lead him from Jane's dim abode. In spite of his remonstrances, Monina
refused to accompany him: she should endanger him, she said; besides
that, his occupation would be to rouse a martial spirit among the
Yorkists--hers to seek the Adalid and her dear father's protection.
Frion procured a safe asylum for the prince: and here, no longer pressed
by the sense of immediate danger, his head was rife with projects, his
spirit burning to show himself first to the Yorkists, in a manner worthy
of his pretensions. The choice was hazardous and difficult: but it so
happened that it was notified that in a few weeks Lord Surrey's eldest
sister was to marry the Lord de Walden, and the ceremony was to be
graced with much feasting and a solemn tournament.
There was magic in all the associations with this family for Richard. In
his early infancy, Thomas Mowbray, the last of the dukes of Norfolk of
that name, died. It almost was beyond his recollection that he had been
married to the little Lady Anne, the duke's only child and heiress. She
died soon after; and the representative of the female branch of the
Mowbrays, John Howard was created duke of Norfolk by Richard the Third.
He fell at Bosworth; and his son, the earl of Surrey, though attaching
himself to Henry the Seventh, and pardoned and taken into favour, was
not permitted to assume his father's attainted title.
At this marriage-feast the mother of his Anne, the dowager duchess of
Norfolk, daughter of Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury, so famous in the French
wars, would be present; and others of the Howard and Berkeley families,
all Yorkists once. The prince could not resist the temptation of
appearing on the lists that day, where, if success crowned him, as
surely it would, he could with prouder hopes call on Surrey to maintain
his claims. Frion got gallant armour for him, and contrived to have him,
under another name, inserted in the list of combatants.
York's bosom swelled with pride and exultation when he saw himself among
his countrymen--his subjects--with lance in rest and bright shield
upon his arm, about to tilt with England's noblest cavaliers. It seemed
to him as if he had never asked more of fortune--and the herald's
voice, the clarion's sound, the neigh of steeds, the gallant bearing of
the knights, and charmed circle of joyous beauty around, were like a
voice from beyond life, speaking of a Paradise he had left,--his own
native home. But one emotion of disquiet crossed him: as about to pass
the barrier, Frion put his hand on his rein, and whispered, "Beware of
Clifford!" The duke threw his eyes round the vizored throng. With what
gladness would he have singled him out, and met him in fierce, mortal
combat! A second thought told him that the dishonoured man could not
find place in this gallant company.
We will not dwell on the tilt, the thrust, and the parry, the
overthrowing of horses, and defeat of knights. Richard gloried in the
recollection of his Spanish combats, and the love he bore for martial
exercises, which made him, so boyish in figure, emulate the strong acts
of men. Fortune had varied: but, when at noon the pastime of that day
ended, the prince remained victor in the field. From the hand of the
queen of the feast he was receiving his reward, when Surrey, who had led
him to her throne, was suddenly called away. The assembly broke up; and
Richard was half occupied by polite attention to the countess, and half
by recollecting his peculiar situation, when the marshal of the lists
whispered him to follow--he led him to a gallery, where Surrey alone
was pacing backwards and forwards in great agitation. He stopped when
the prince entered--motioned the marshal to leave them, and then, in a
voice of suppressed passion, said, "I will not ask thee why with a false
appellation thou hast insulted the feast of nobles?--but well may I
ask, what fiend possessed thee to do a deed that affixes the taint of
disloyalty to King Henry's liege subject?"
"My good sword, my lord," said Richard, colouring, "were eloquent to
answer your questioning, but that you are much deceived; I am not indeed
that which I called myself; but honour, not disgrace, attaches itself to
my presence. I came to tell you this, to rouse the old fidelity of the
Howards; to bid Lord Surrey arm for the last of the true Plantagenets."
"Saint Thomas speed me! Clifford then spoke true--thou art Perkin
Warbeck?"
"I would fain," said the duke haughtily, "ask a revered lady, who claims
kindred with thee, what name she would give to her sainted daughter's
affianced husband?"
The language of truth is too clear, too complete, for the blots and
flaws of incredulity; the very anger Lord Surrey had manifested, now
turned to his confusion; the insult he had offered demanded reparation;
he could not refuse his visitant's earnest demand to be led to the widow
of Mowbray, duke of Norfolk.
Elizabeth, daughter of the gallant Talbot, was proud of her ancestry,
and disappointed in the diminution of her house. When her Anne was
affianced to the little duke of York, and the nobility of Norfolk was
merged in the royal style of England, she had gloried; since then,
attainder and defeat had eclipsed the ducal honours of her race; nor
could she forgive the allegiance of its heirs to Lancaster. Often had
she pondered on the reports concerning Margaret of Burgundy's White
Rose; it was with agitation therefore that she heard that he was to be
brought for her to decide on his truth.
The duke had doffed his helm: his golden hair clustered on the almost
infantine candour of his brow, and shaded to softer meaning the frank
aspect of his clear blue eyes. The aged duchess fixed her dimmed but
steady gaze upon him, and at once became aware that this was no ignoble
pretender who stood before her. His dignity inspired Surrey with
respect: he hesitated as he introduced the subject of his identity with
Edward the Fourth's youngest son. The duke, with a half-smile, began to
speak of his boyish recollections, and his little pretty playfellow, and
of one Mistress Margery, her governante; he spoke of a quarrel with his
infant bride on the very wedding-day, and how nothing would bribe him to
the ceremony, save the gift of a pretty foal, White Surrey, which
afterwards bore his uncle Gloucester in the battle of Bosworth. As he
spoke, he saw a smile mantle over the aged lady's countenance; and then
he alluded to his poor wife's death, and reminded the duchess, that when
clad in black, an infant widower, he had visited her in condolence; and
how the sad lady had taken a jewel-encircled portrait of her lost child,
garnished with the blended arms of Plantagenet and Mowbray, from his
neck, promising to restore it on an after-day, which day had never come.
Tears now rushed, into the duchess's eyes; she drew the miniature from
her bosom, and neither she nor Lord Surrey could longer doubt, that the
affianced husband of the noble Anne stood before them.
Much confusion painted the earl's countenance. The duke of York's first
involuntary act had been to stretch out his hand; but the noble
hesitated ere he could bestow on it the kiss of allegiance. Richard
marked his reluctance, and spoke with gallant frankness: "I am an
outcast," he said, "the victim of lukewarm faith and ill-nurtured
treason: I am weak, my adversary strong. My lord, I will ask nothing of
you; I will not fancy that you would revive the ancient bond of union
between York and Norfolk; and yet, were it not a worthy act to pull down
a base-minded usurper, and seat upon his father's throne an injured
prince?"
The duchess answered for him. "Oh, surely, my noble cousin will be no
recreant in this cause, the cause of our own so exalted lineage."
But Lord Surrey had different thoughts: it cost him much to express
them; for he had loved the House of York, and honoured and pitied its
apparent offspring. At length he overcame his feelings, and said, "And,
if I do not this, if I do not assist to replant a standard whose staff
was broken on the graves of our slaughtered fathers, will your highness
yet bear with me, while I say a few words in my defence?"
"It needs not, gallant Surrey," interrupted York.
"Under favour, it does need," replied the earl; "and withal touches mine
honour nearly, that it stand clear in this question. My lord, the Roses
contended in a long and sanguinary war, and many thousand of our
countrymen fell in the sad conflict. The executioner's axe accomplished
what the murderous sword spared, and poor England became a wide, wide
grave. The green-wood glade, the cultivated fields, noble castles, and
smiling villages were changed to churchyard and tomb: want, famine, and
hate ravaged the fated land. My lord, I love not Tudor, but I love my
country: and now that I see plenty and peace reign over this fair isle,
even though Lancaster be their unworthy viceregent, shall I cast forth
these friends of man, to bring back the deadly horrors of unholy civil
war? By the God that made me, I cannot? I have a dear wife and lovely
children, sisters, friends, and all the sacred ties of humanity, that
cling round my heart, and feed it with delight; these I might sacrifice
at the call of honour, but the misery I must then endure I will not
inflict on others; I will not people my country with widows and orphans;
nor spread the plague of death from the eastern to the western sea."
Surrey spoke eloquently well; for his heart was upon his lips. Prince
Richard heard with burning emotion. "By my fay!" he cried, "thou wouldst
teach me to turn spinster, my lord: but oh, cousin Howard! did you know
what it is to be an exiled man, dependent on the bounty of others;
though your patrimony were but a shepherd's hut on a wild nameless
common, you would think it well done to waste life to dispossess the
usurper of your right."