High o'er the eastern steep the sun is beaming,
And darkness flies with her deceitful shadows;--
So truth prevails o'er falsehood. --OLD PLAY.
As Tressilian rode along the bridge, lately the scene of so much riotous
sport, he could not but observe that men's countenances had singularly
changed during the space of his brief absence. The mock fight was over,
but the men, still habited in their masking suits, stood together in
groups, like the inhabitants of a city who have been just startled by
some strange and alarming news.
When he reached the base-court, appearances were the same--domestics,
retainers, and under-officers stood together and whispered, bending
their eyes towards the windows of the Great Hall, with looks which
seemed at once alarmed and mysterious.
Sir Nicholas Blount was the first person of his own particular
acquaintance Tressilian saw, who left him no time to make inquiries, but
greeted him with, “God help thy heart, Tressilian! thou art fitter for a
clown than a courtier thou canst not attend, as becomes one who follows
her Majesty. Here you are called for, wished for, waited for--no man but
you will serve the turn; and hither you come with a misbegotten brat on
thy horse's neck, as if thou wert dry nurse to some sucking devil, and
wert just returned from airing.”
“Why, what is the matter?” said Tressilian, letting go the boy, who
sprung to ground like a feather, and himself dismounting at the same
time.
“Why, no one knows the matter,” replied Blount; “I cannot smell it out
myself, though I have a nose like other courtiers. Only, my Lord of
Leicester has galloped along the bridge as if he would have rode over
all in his passage, demanded an audience of the Queen, and is closeted
even now with her, and Burleigh and Walsingham--and you are called for;
but whether the matter be treason or worse, no one knows.”
“He speaks true, by Heaven!” said Raleigh, who that instant appeared;
“you must immediately to the Queen's presence.”
“Be not rash, Raleigh,” said Blount, “remember his boots.--For Heaven's
sake, go to my chamber, dear Tressilian, and don my new bloom-coloured
silken hose; I have worn them but twice.”
“Pshaw!” answered Tressilian; “do thou take care of this boy, Blount; be
kind to him, and look he escapes you not--much depends on him.”
So saying, he followed Raleigh hastily, leaving honest Blount with the
bridle of his horse in one hand, and the boy in the other. Blount gave a
long look after him.
“Nobody,” he said, “calls me to these mysteries--and he leaves me here
to play horse-keeper and child-keeper at once. I could excuse the one,
for I love a good horse naturally; but to be plagued with a bratchet
whelp.--Whence come ye, my fair-favoured little gossip?”
“From the Fens,” answered the boy.
“And what didst thou learn there, forward imp?”
“To catch gulls, with their webbed feet and yellow stockings,” said the
boy.
“Umph!” said Blount, looking down on his own immense roses. “Nay, then,
the devil take him asks thee more questions.”
Meantime Tressilian traversed the full length of the Great Hall,
in which the astonished courtiers formed various groups, and were
whispering mysteriously together, while all kept their eyes fixed on
the door which led from the upper end of the hall into the Queen's
withdrawing apartment. Raleigh pointed to the door. Tressilian knocked,
and was instantly admitted. Many a neck was stretched to gain a view
into the interior of the apartment; but the tapestry which covered
the door on the inside was dropped too suddenly to admit the slightest
gratification of curiosity.
Upon entrance, Tressilian found himself, not without a strong
palpitation of heart, in the presence of Elizabeth, who was walking to
and fro in a violent agitation, which she seemed to scorn to conceal,
while two or three of her most sage and confidential counsellors
exchanged anxious looks with each other, but delayed speaking till her
wrath abated. Before the empty chair of state in which she had been
seated, and which was half pushed aside by the violence with which she
had started from it, knelt Leicester, his arms crossed, and his
brows bent on the ground, still and motionless as the effigies upon a
sepulchre. Beside him stood the Lord Shrewsbury, then Earl Marshal of
England, holding his baton of office. The Earl's sword was unbuckled,
and lay before him on the floor.
“Ho, sir!” said the Queen, coming close up to Tressilian, and stamping
on the floor with the action and manner of Henry himself; “you knew of
this fair work--you are an accomplice in this deception which has been
practised on us--you have been a main cause of our doing injustice?”
Tressilian dropped on his knee before the Queen, his good sense showing
him the risk of attempting any defence at that moment of irritation.
“Art dumb, sirrah?” she continued; “thou knowest of this affair dost
thou not?”
“Not, gracious madam, that this poor lady was Countess of Leicester.”
“Nor shall any one know her for such,” said Elizabeth. “Death of my
life! Countess of Leicester!--I say Dame Amy Dudley; and well if she
have not cause to write herself widow of the traitor Robert Dudley.”
“Madam,” said Leicester, “do with me what it may be your will to do, but
work no injury on this gentleman; he hath in no way deserved it.”
“And will he be the better for thy intercession,” said the Queen,
leaving Tressilian, who slowly arose, and rushing to Leicester, who
continued kneeling--“the better for thy intercession, thou doubly
false--thou doubly forsworn;--of thy intercession, whose villainy hath
made me ridiculous to my subjects and odious to myself? I could tear out
mine eyes for their blindness!”
Burleigh here ventured to interpose.
“Madam,” he said, “remember that you are a Queen--Queen of
England--mother of your people. Give not way to this wild storm of
passion.”
Elizabeth turned round to him, while a tear actually twinkled in her
proud and angry eye. “Burleigh,” she said, “thou art a statesman--thou
dost not, thou canst not, comprehend half the scorn, half the misery,
that man has poured on me!”
With the utmost caution--with the deepest reverence--Burleigh took her
hand at the moment he saw her heart was at the fullest, and led her
aside to an oriel window, apart from the others.
“Madam,” he said, “I am a statesman, but I am also a man--a man already
grown old in your councils--who have not and cannot have a wish on earth
but your glory and happiness; I pray you to be composed.”
“Ah! Burleigh,” said Elizabeth, “thou little knowest--” here her tears
fell over her cheeks in despite of her.
“I do--I do know, my honoured sovereign. Oh, beware that you lead not
others to guess that which they know not!”
“Ha!” said Elizabeth, pausing as if a new train of thought had
suddenly shot across her brain. “Burleigh, thou art right--thou
art right--anything but disgrace--anything but a confession of
weakness--anything rather than seem the cheated, slighted--'sdeath! to
think on it is distraction!”
“Be but yourself, my Queen,” said Burleigh; “and soar far above a
weakness which no Englishman will ever believe his Elizabeth could have
entertained, unless the violence of her disappointment carries a sad
conviction to his bosom.”
“What weakness, my lord?” said Elizabeth haughtily; “would you too
insinuate that the favour in which I held yonder proud traitor derived
its source from aught--” But here she could no longer sustain the proud
tone which she had assumed, and again softened as she said, “But why
should I strive to deceive even thee, my good and wise servant?”
Burleigh stooped to kiss her hand with affection, and--rare in the
annals of courts--a tear of true sympathy dropped from the eye of the
minister on the hand of his Sovereign.
It is probable that the consciousness of possessing this sympathy aided
Elizabeth in supporting her mortification, and suppressing her extreme
resentment; but she was still more moved by fear that her passion should
betray to the public the affront and the disappointment, which, alike
as a woman and a Queen, she was so anxious to conceal. She turned from
Burleigh, and sternly paced the hall till her features had recovered
their usual dignity, and her mien its wonted stateliness of regular
motion.
“Our Sovereign is her noble self once more,” whispered Burleigh to
Walsingham; “mark what she does, and take heed you thwart her not.”
She then approached Leicester, and said with calmness, “My Lord
Shrewsbury, we discharge you of your prisoner.--My Lord of Leicester,
rise and take up your sword; a quarter of an hour's restraint under
the custody of our Marshal, my lord, is, we think, no high penance for
months of falsehood practised upon us. We will now hear the progress
of this affair.” She then seated herself in her chair, and said, “You,
Tressilian, step forward, and say what you know.”
Tressilian told his story generously, suppressing as much as he could
what affected Leicester, and saying nothing of their having twice
actually fought together. It is very probable that, in doing so, he did
the Earl good service; for had the Queen at that instant found anything
on account of which she could vent her wrath upon him, without laying
open sentiments of which she was ashamed, it might have fared hard with
him. She paused when Tressilian had finished his tale.
“We will take that Wayland,” she said, “into our own service, and place
the boy in our Secretary office for instruction, that he may in future
use discretion towards letters. For you, Tressilian, you did wrong in
not communicating the whole truth to us, and your promise not to do so
was both imprudent and undutiful. Yet, having given your word to this
unhappy lady, it was the part of a man and a gentleman to keep it; and
on the whole, we esteem you for the character you have sustained in this
matter.--My Lord of Leicester, it is now your turn to tell us the truth,
an exercise to which you seem of late to have been too much a stranger.”
Accordingly, she extorted, by successive questions, the whole history
of his first acquaintance with Amy Robsart--their marriage--his
jealousy--the causes on which it was founded, and many particulars
besides. Leicester's confession, for such it might be called, was
wrenched from him piecemeal, yet was upon the whole accurate, excepting
that he totally omitted to mention that he had, by implication or
otherwise, assented to Varney's designs upon the life of his Countess.
Yet the consciousness of this was what at that moment lay nearest to
his heart; and although he trusted in great measure to the very positive
counter-orders which he had sent by Lambourne, it was his purpose to set
out for Cumnor Place in person as soon as he should be dismissed from
the presence of the Queen, who, he concluded, would presently leave
Kenilworth.
But the Earl reckoned without his host. It is true his presence and his
communications were gall and wormwood to his once partial mistress.
But barred from every other and more direct mode of revenge, the Queen
perceived that she gave her false suitor torture by these inquiries,
and dwelt on them for that reason, no more regarding the pain which she
herself experienced, than the savage cares for the searing of his own
hands by grasping the hot pincers with which he tears the flesh of his
captive enemy.
At length, however, the haughty lord, like a deer that turns to bay,
gave intimation that his patience was failing. “Madam,” he said, “I have
been much to blame--more than even your just resentment has expressed.
Yet, madam, let me say that my guilt, if it be unpardonable, was not
unprovoked, and that if beauty and condescending dignity could seduce
the frail heart of a human being, I might plead both as the causes of my
concealing this secret from your Majesty.”
The Queen was so much struck with this reply, which Leicester took
care should be heard by no one but herself, that she was for the moment
silenced, and the Earl had the temerity to pursue his advantage. “Your
Grace, who has pardoned so much, will excuse my throwing myself on your
royal mercy for those expressions which were yester-morning accounted
but a light offence.”
The Queen fixed her eyes on him while she replied, “Now, by Heaven, my
lord, thy effrontery passes the bounds of belief, as well as patience!
But it shall avail thee nothing.--What ho! my lords, come all and hear
the news-my Lord of Leicester's stolen marriage has cost me a husband,
and England a king. His lordship is patriarchal in his tastes--one wife
at a time was insufficient, and he designed US the honour of his left
hand. Now, is not this too insolent--that I could not grace him with
a few marks of court-favour, but he must presume to think my hand and
crown at his disposal? You, however, think better of me; and I can pity
this ambitious man, as I could a child, whose bubble of soap has burst
between his hands. We go to the presence-chamber.--My Lord of Leicester,
we command your close attendance on us.”
All was eager expectation in the hall, and what was the universal
astonishment when the Queen said to those next her, “The revels of
Kenilworth are not yet exhausted, my lords and ladies--we are to
solemnize the noble owner's marriage.”
There was an universal expression of surprise.
“It is true, on our royal word,” said the Queen; “he hath kept this
a secret even from us, that he might surprise us with it at this very
place and time. I see you are dying of curiosity to know the happy
bride. It is Amy Robsart, the same who, to make up the May-game
yesterday, figured in the pageant as the wife of his servant Varney.”
“For God's sake, madam,” said the Earl, approaching her with a mixture
of humility, vexation, and shame in his countenance, and speaking so low
as to be heard by no one else, “take my head, as you threatened in your
anger, and spare me these taunts! Urge not a falling man--tread not on a
crushed worm.”
“A worm, my lord?” said the Queen, in the same tone; “nay, a snake is
the nobler reptile, and the more exact similitude--the frozen snake you
wot of, which was warmed in a certain bosom--”
“For your own sake--for mine, madam,” said the Earl--“while there is yet
some reason left in me--”
“Speak aloud, my lord,” said Elizabeth, “and at farther distance, so
please you--your breath thaws our ruff. What have you to ask of us?”
“Permission,” said the unfortunate Earl humbly, “to travel to Cumnor
Place.”
“To fetch home your bride belike?--Why, ay--that is but right, for, as
we have heard, she is indifferently cared for there. But, my lord, you
go not in person; we have counted upon passing certain days in this
Castle of Kenilworth, and it were slight courtesy to leave us without a
landlord during our residence here. Under your favour, we cannot think
to incur such disgrace in the eyes of our subjects. Tressilian shall
go to Cumnor Place instead of you, and with him some gentleman who hath
been sworn of our chamber, lest my Lord of Leicester should be again
jealous of his old rival.--Whom wouldst thou have to be in commission
with thee, Tressilian?”
Tressilian, with humble deference, suggested the name of Raleigh.
“Why, ay,” said the Queen; “so God ha' me, thou hast made a good choice.
He is a young knight besides, and to deliver a lady from prison is
an appropriate first adventure.--Cumnor Place is little better than a
prison, you are to know, my lords and ladies. Besides, there are certain
faitours there whom we would willingly have in safe keeping. You will
furnish them, Master Secretary, with the warrant necessary to secure the
bodies of Richard Varney and the foreign Alasco, dead or alive. Take
a sufficient force with you, gentlemen--bring the lady here in all
honour--lose no time, and God be with you!”
They bowed, and left the presence,
Who shall describe how the rest of that day was spent at Kenilworth?
The Queen, who seemed to have remained there for the sole purpose of
mortifying and taunting the Earl of Leicester, showed herself as skilful
in that female art of vengeance, as she was in the science of wisely
governing her people. The train of state soon caught the signal, and as
he walked among his own splendid preparations, the Lord of Kenilworth,
in his own Castle, already experienced the lot of a disgraced courtier,
in the slight regard and cold manners of alienated friends, and the
ill-concealed triumph of avowed and open enemies. Sussex, from his
natural military frankness of disposition, Burleigh and Walsingham, from
their penetrating and prospective sagacity, and some of the ladies, from
the compassion of their sex, were the only persons in the crowded court
who retained towards him the countenance they had borne in the morning.
So much had Leicester been accustomed to consider court favour as the
principal object of his life, that all other sensations were, for the
time, lost in the agony which his haughty spirit felt at the succession
of petty insults and studied neglects to which he had been subjected;
but when he retired to his own chamber for the night, that long,
fair tress of hair which had once secured Amy's letter fell under his
observation, and, with the influence of a counter-charm, awakened his
heart to nobler and more natural feelings. He kissed it a thousand
times; and while he recollected that he had it always in his power to
shun the mortifications which he had that day undergone, by retiring
into a dignified and even prince-like seclusion with the beautiful and
beloved partner of his future life, he felt that he could rise above the
revenge which Elizabeth had condescended to take.
Accordingly, on the following day the whole conduct of the Earl
displayed so much dignified equanimity--he seemed so solicitous about
the accommodations and amusements of his guests, yet so indifferent to
their personal demeanour towards him--so respectfully distant to the
Queen, yet so patient of her harassing displeasure--that Elizabeth
changed her manner to him, and, though cold and distant, ceased to offer
him any direct affront. She intimated also with some sharpness to others
around her, who thought they were consulting her pleasure in showing a
neglectful conduct to the Earl, that while they remained at Kenilworth
they ought to show the civility due from guests to the Lord of the
Castle. In short, matters were so far changed in twenty-four hours that
some of the more experienced and sagacious courtiers foresaw a strong
possibility of Leicester's restoration to favour, and regulated their
demeanour towards him, as those who might one day claim merit for not
having deserted him in adversity. It is time, however, to leave these
intrigues, and follow Tressilian and Raleigh on their journey.
The troop consisted of six persons; for, besides Wayland, they had
in company a royal pursuivant and two stout serving-men. All were
well-armed, and travelled as fast as it was possible with justice to
their horses, which had a long journey before them. They endeavoured
to procure some tidings as they rode along of Varney and his party, but
could hear none, as they had travelled in the dark. At a small village
about twelve miles from Kenilworth, where they gave some refreshment to
their horses, a poor clergyman, the curate of the place, came out of a
small cottage, and entreated any of the company who might know aught of
surgery to look in for an instant on a dying man.
The empiric Wayland undertook to do his best, and as the curate
conducted him to the spot, he learned that the man had been found on
the highroad, about a mile from the village, by labourers, as they were
going to their work on the preceding morning, and the curate had given
him shelter in his house. He had received a gun-shot wound, which seemed
to be obviously mortal; but whether in a brawl or from robbers they
could not learn, as he was in a fever, and spoke nothing connectedly.
Wayland entered the dark and lowly apartment, and no sooner had the
curate drawn aside the curtain than he knew, in the distorted features
of the patient, the countenance of Michael Lambourne. Under pretence
of seeking something which he wanted, Wayland hastily apprised
his fellow-travellers of this extraordinary circumstance; and both
Tressilian and Raleigh, full of boding apprehensions, hastened to the
curate's house to see the dying man.
The wretch was by this time in the agonies of death, from which a much
better surgeon than Wayland could not have rescued him, for the bullet
had passed clear through his body. He was sensible, however, at least in
part, for he knew Tressilian, and made signs that he wished him to stoop
over his bed. Tressilian did so, and after some inarticulate murmurs, in
which the names of Varney and Lady Leicester were alone distinguishable,
Lambourne bade him “make haste, or he would come too late.” It was in
vain Tressilian urged the patient for further information; he seemed
to become in some degree delirious, and when he again made a signal to
attract Tressilian's attention, it was only for the purpose of desiring
him to inform his uncle, Giles Gosling of the Black Bear, that “he had
died without his shoes after all.” A convulsion verified his words a few
minutes after, and the travellers derived nothing from having met with
him, saving the obscure fears concerning the fate of the Countess, which
his dying words were calculated to convey, and which induced them to
urge their journey with the utmost speed, pressing horses in the Queen's
name when those which they rode became unfit for service.