In the Countess of Moray’s Apartments—Sir Patrick gets Quizzed.
The Earl and his friends had no sooner reached Tarnawa, than they
retired, each to his own chamber, to enjoy a few hours’ rest. Sir
Patrick Hepborne made inquiry for his page, but the latter was nowhere
to be found at the time; so, leaving orders that the youth should be in
attendance, he gladly committed his wearied limbs to the comforts of
his couch.
It was about midday when he raised his head from his pillow, and his
first thought was to call for Maurice de Grey; but a lacquey informed
him that the youth had not yet appeared. He sent the man for Mortimer
Sang, and when the esquire came, he was much disappointed to learn that
he had seen or heard nothing of the boy.
“Go then, I pr’ythee,” said Sir Patrick, “and make diligent inquiry for
the youth through the Castle, and when thou hast found him, send him
hither without a moment’s delay. Verily, it seemeth that he doth
already begin to forget that I am his master.”
Sang hastened to obey, but remained absent much longer than Sir
Patrick, in his anxiety about the boy, could think reasonable. The
knight walked hastily about the room, and at length becoming very
impatient, he sent first one lacquey, and then another, after the
esquire. At last Mortimer Sang returned.
“Well, where is Maurice de Grey?” demanded Hepborne.
“By the mass, Sir Knight, I can gain no tidings of him.”
“’Tis very strange,” replied the knight, with a look of much vexation.
“I do much fear me that the youth is of a truant disposition; it was
indeed that which gave him to me. He ran away from his paternal home,
and from maternal care, united himself to my party, and how oft did he
solemnly and hautently vow never to quit me until death should sever
us! His present absence doth wear a very mysterious and suspicious
aspect.—Hath the old Harper been seen?” demanded Sir Patrick, after a
pause, during which he paced the room two or three times backwards and
forwards.
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied the squire, “he hath not been visible.”
“Depardieux, then they must have gone off together,” replied Sir
Patrick, with a tone of extreme dissatisfaction; “’tis most like that
the minstrel, who must have known him before, hath aided, and perhaps
been the partner of his escape. Yes, they must have been well
acquainted, seeing that old Adam did so greatly frequent the English
Border, and that he was so much esteemed by the Lady Eleanore de ———, I
mean, by the page’s kinswoman. Well, I shall feel the loss of the boy’s
company, for, sooth to say, his prattle did often beguile me of a dull
hour. Truly, he was a shrewd and winning youth; but I am sore grieved
to discover that he hath had in him such deceit, and so little feeling
for the kindness I did ever show him.”
With these words, the knight threw himself on the couch, altogether
unable to conceal the chagrin and distress of mind he was suffering.
“Perdie, I should have been as a father to that boy,” said he again; “I
should have made him a knight worthy of the highest place in the annals
of chivalry. The youth seemed to value, yea, and to give heed to my
counsels too; nay, the admiration with which he looked up to me might
have been almost considered as ridiculous, had it not been viewed as
the offspring of extreme attachment. He spoke as if he imagined that I
was all excellence, all perfection. What strange cause can have
occasioned his so sudden abandonment of me, and that, too, without
having given me the smallest warning or hint of his intention? Did not
I, more than once, tell him that I should be willing to aid his return
to his friends, should he ever feel a desire to do so? His escapade is
an utter mystery to me. Ha! I have it,” continued he, after a short
pause of consideration; “I trow, I have hit it at last. The youth hath
some turn, nay, and, I wot, no mean one neither, for poesy and song;
moreover, he toucheth the harp with liard and skilful fingers; and
seeing that he is fond of change, he hath, ’tis like, taken fancy to
become a troubadour, and so has exchanged me as his master for old Adam
of Gordon. Well, well, why should I vex myself about a silly, careless,
truant boy?”
But Sir Patrick did, notwithstanding, vex himself most abundantly, and,
nearly an hour afterwards, he was found, still lying in peevish and
fretful soliloquy, by Mortimer Sang, who entered his chamber, with a
message from the Countess of Moray, entreating his company in her
apartment for a short conference. Sir Patrick hastily prepared himself
to attend her, and was immediately ushered into her presence by a
squire in waiting.
He found his noble hostess seated with the Lady Jane de Vaux, in the
midst of her damsels, some of whom were employed in idle chitchat,
others in singing, from time to time, to the harp or guitar, whilst the
rest were assisting in an extensive work of embroidery. They were
immediately dismissed on his entrance, and the Countess came forward
graciously to receive him.
“I fear, Sir Patrick,” said she, “that I may have perhaps broken in
rather prematurely upon those hours of repose which the fatigue of
yesternight’s violent, though charitable, exertions had doubtless
rendered as welcome as they were necessary. The Earl, my husband, was
so overspent with toil when he returned this morning, that he was
buried in slumber ere I had time to question him as to the cause of the
calamity, or even as to its full extent. I was on the eve of entreating
a few minutes’ audience of thee at that time, that I might have my
curiosity satisfied, but just as I was about to send my page to crave
this boon of thine, thy page, Maurice de Grey, came hither, and
informed me that thou also hadst betaken thee to thy couch. I have thus
been compelled to champ the bit of impatience ever sithence; but,
impatient as I am, I shall not easily forgive myself if I have been the
means of rudely disturbing thy needful refreshment.”
“My page!” cried the knight with a mixture of surprise and eagerness,
and made him forget everything else that the Countess had said to him;
“verily, I have been seeking and sending for my page during the greater
part of the morning. I beseech your Ladyship, when was the little
varlet here, and what could have induced him to be so bold as to
intrude himself on the Countess of Moray?”
“Nay,” replied the Countess, with an air of surprise no less strong
than that of Sir Patrick, “I did assuredly think that it was thou who
didst order him to come hither. He came to introduce a certain minstrel
to my notice, and in so doing to take the opportunity of paying his
duty to me, by thine own desire, ere the old man and he should depart
hence together.”
“Depart hence!” cried Hepborne, with still greater astonishment,
mingled with excessive vexation; “depart hence, didst thou say? So then
the heartless boy hath really left me. Of a truth, when first I missed
him, I did suspect that he and the minstrel had gone off together.
Whither have they gone, I do beseech thee?”
“Nay, that is indeed miraculous,” replied the Countess; “’tis indeed
miraculous, I say, that thou shouldst not have known the page was going
away; for albeit he did not positively say so, yet did he so
counterfeit with us that I for one did never doubt but that he came
hither by thy very command to do his obeisance to me ere he should yede
him hence. ’Tis a right artful youth, I’ll warrant me. Nay, Sir Knight,
methinks thou hast good reason to congratulate thyself on being so
happily rid of a cunning chit, who mought have worked thee much evil by
his tricks. Of a truth, I liked not his looks over much———”
“Forgive me, noble lady,” cried the knight, “I cannot hear the boy
spoken of otherwise than as he may in justice deserve. I saw not ever
any trick or mischief in him; on the contrary, he did always appear
most doced in his demeanour and service. Moreover, he is a boy of most
sensible remark, and more prudence of conduct than one might reasonably
look for in a head so young and inexperienced; then as for his heart,
it was warmer than any I ever met with in old or young. I trow he did
prove to me more than once that his attachment to my person was
something beyond mere pretence. Twice did he nearly sacrifice his life
for me. What can have induced him to go off thus secretly? Had I been
cruel to him he might have fled from me with good reason; but I loved
the boy as I should have loved a younger brother, yea, or a son, if I
had had one. There was so much gentleness about him; yet lacked he not
a sly, sharp, and subtle wit.”
“Yea, of a truth, he hath a wit,” cried the Lady Jane de Vaux, archly;
“ay, and as you say, Sir Knight, ’tis indeed a sharp one. How the
wicked rogue did amuse us by the rehearsal of thy loves, Sir Knight! I
do mean thy loves for his fair cousin, the beauteous Lady Eleanore de
Selby. Ha, ha, ha! parfay, the varlet did stir up some excellent
good-humoured pleasantry and merry laughter in us.”
“In truth, his stories were most amusing,” said the Countess; “trust
me, it is a smart and witty little knave as ever I saw.”
“A most rare and laughter-stirring imp, indeed,” cried the Lady Jane de
Vaux; “nay, the mere remembrance of him doth provoke me yet—ha, ha,
ha!”
Sir Patrick Hepborne stood confounded and abashed, to find himself thus
unexpectedly placed as a butt for the ridicule of the two ladies.
“My noble Countess of Moray, and you, beauteous Lady Jane de Vaux, you
do seem to have vouchsafed me the honour of being your quintaine this
morning—the targe against the which you may gaily prove the sharp
points of your merry wit. Depardieux, my lot in being so selected is to
be envied, not deplored; and I must thank you for the distinguished
preference you have deigned to show me. Yet cannot I but feel
disappointment most severe, to discover thus that a youth, towards whom
I was so well affected, should have requited my love so ill-favouredly.
Of a truth, the wicked knave hath been most indiscreet. And yet meseems
that I myself have been even more indiscreet than he, since the secret
was altogether mine own, and I ought to have kept it better.”
“In good sooth, we were much indebted to the imp for his information,”
said the Lady Jane de Vaux; “for to be free with thee, Sir Knight, our
stock of female curiosity, the which was raised highly by the public
refusal of so renowned a chevalier to drink a pledge to his lady love,
was beginning to be much an over-match for our limited store of
patience. Our appetite for intelligence regarding the state of thy
heart was waxing so great, that had not this boy of thine come to us
this morning, to open his wallet and satisfy our craving, we might ere
this have been dead of mere starvation. His visit here was quite a
blessing to us.”
“By St. Andrew, I am thunderstruck,” cried the Knight, “Depardieux, the
young caitiff hath indeed deceived me deeply in thus betraying the most
sacred secret of my heart.”
“Of a truth, thine unexampled constancy did deserve better treatment,
Sir Knight,” said the Countess, with a tone and manner tinged with a
certain degree of asperity and sarcasm, which Hepborne hardly believed
that amiable lady could have assumed; whilst, at the same time, she and
Jane de Vaux exchanged very significant looks. With an effort to
command herself, however, she turned the conversation rather suddenly
towards the subject of the burning of Forres; and after gathering from
Hepborne the general circumstances of that calamity, she, with more
than usual dignity, signified to him her wish to be alone, and he
retired to his apartment, to fret himself about the loss of his page,
and the provoking circumstances by which it was accompanied.