"The brave Sir Bartine Entwisel
Hath donned his coat of steel,
And left his hall and stately home,
To fight for Englond's weal.
"To fight for Englond's weal, I trow,
And good King Harry's right,
His loyal heart was warm and true,
His sword and buckler bright.
"That sword once felt the craven foe,
Its hilt was black with gore,
And many a mother's son did rue
His might at Agincourt.
"And now he stately steps his hall,
'A summons from the king?
My armour bright, my casque and plume,
My sword and buckler bring.
"'Blow, warder, blow. Thy horn is shrill,
My liegemen hither call,
For I must away to the south countrie,
And spears and lances all.'
"'Oh, go not to the south countrie!'
His lady weeping said;
'Oh, go not to the battle-field,
For I dreamed of the waters red!'
"'Oh, go not to the south countrie!'
Cried out his daughter dear;
'Oh, go not to the bloody fight,
For I dreamed of the waters clear!'
"Sir Bertine raised his dark visor,
And he kissed his fond lady;
'I must away to the wars and fight
For our king in jeopardy!'
"The lady gat her to the tower,
She clomb the battlement;
She watched and greet, while through the woods
The glittering falchions went.
"The wind was high, the storm grew loud,
Fierce rose the billowy sea;
When from Sir Bertine's lordly tower
The bell boomed heavily!
"'O mother dear, what bodes that speech
From yonder iron tongue?'
''Tis but the rude, rude blast, my love,
That idle bell hath swung.'
"Upon the rattling casement still
The beating rain fell fast;
When creeping fingers wandering thrice
Across that window passed.
"'O mother dear, what means that sound
Upon the lattice nigh?'
''Tis but the cold, cold arrowy sleet,
That hurtles in the sky.'
"The blast was still--a pause more dread
Ne'er terror felt--when, lo!
An armed footstep on the stair
Clanked heavily and slow.
"Up flew the latch and tirling-pin,
Wide swung the grated door,
Then came a solemn stately tread
Upon the quaking floor!
"A shudder through the building ran,
A chill and icy blast;
A moan, as though in agony
Some viewless spirit passed!
"'O mother dear, my heart is froze,
My limbs are stark and cold.'
Her mother spake not, for again
That turret bell hath tolled.
"Three days passed by. At eventide
There came an aged man,
He bent him low before the dame,
His wrinkled cheek was wan.
"'Now, speak, thou evil messenger,
Thy tidings show to me.'
That aged man, nor look vouchsafed,
Nor ever a word spake he.
"'What bringest thou?' the lady said,
'I charge thee by the rood.'
He drew a signet from his hand,
'Twas speckled o'er with blood.
"'Thy husband's grave is wide and deep.
In St Alban's priory
His body lies, but on his soul
Christ Jesus have mercy!'"[28]
Scarcely had the last solemn supplication been uttered, when the latch
of the chamber was raised. The door flew open, and the outlaw, in his
dark grey cap and cloak, stood before them. Constance was too much
alarmed to utter a word. She clung to her companion with the agony of
one grasping at the most fragile support for life and safety.
"Nay, maiden, I would not harm thee," said the intruder, in a voice so
musical and sad, that it seemed to drop into the listener's ear like a
gush of harmony, or a sweet and melancholy chime wakening up the heart's
most endeared and hallowed associations. His features were nobly formed.
His eye, large and bright, of the purest grey; the lashes, like a cloud,
covering and tempering their lustre. A touch of sadness rested on his
lips. They seemed to speak of suffering and endurance, as if the soul's
deepest agony would not have cast a word across their barriers.
Constance for a moment raised her eyes, but they were suddenly
withdrawn, overflowing with some powerful emotion. He still gazed, but
one proud effort broke the fixed intensity of his glance, and his tongue
resumed its office.
"Maiden, I am pursued. The foe are on my track. My retreat is
discovered, and unless thou wilt vouchsafe to me a hiding-place, I am in
their power. The Earl of Tyrone--nay, I scorn the title--'tis the King
of Ulster that stands before thee. I would not crouch thus for my own
life, were it not for my country. Her stay, her sustenance, is in thy
keeping."
Never did wretchedness and misfortune sue in vain to woman's ear.
Constance forgot her weakness and timidity. She saw not her own danger.
A fellow-being craved help and succour; all other feelings gave place,
and she seemed animated with a new impulse. She looked on the minstrel,
as if to ascertain his fidelity. It was evident, however, that no
apprehension need be entertained, this personage seeming to manifest no
slight solicitude for the safety of the unfortunate chief.
"The old lead mine, in the Cleuch," whispered he.
"Nay, it must be in the house," replied Constance, with a glance of
forethought beyond her years. "The pursuers will not search this loyal
house for treason!"
As was the case in most mansions belonging to families of rank and
importance, a room was contrived for purposes of special concealment,
where persons or property could be stowed in case of danger. A heavy
stack of chimneys was enlarged so as to admit of a small apartment,
inconvenient enough in other respects, yet well adapted as a temporary
hiding-place.
Hither, through secluded passages, the careful Constance conducted her
guest, who had so strangely thrown himself, with unhesitating
confidence, upon her generosity and protection. The proud representative
of a kingly race was rescued by a woman from ignominy and death. Some
feeling of this nature probably overpowered him. As he bade her good
night, his voice faltered, and he passed his hand suddenly athwart his
brow. Constance, having fulfilled this sacred duty, shrank from any
further intercourse, and hastened to her chamber. It was long ere she
could sleep; portentous dreams then brooded over her slumbers. The
terrible vision was repeated, and she awoke, but not to her wonted
cheerfulness.
How strange, how mysterious, the mechanism of the human heart! The
feelings glide insensibly into each other, changing their hue and
character imperceptibly, as the colours on the evening cloud. Protection
awakens kindness, kindness pity, and pity love. Love, the more
dangerous, too, the process being unperceived, insidiously disguised
under other names, and under the finest sympathies and affections of our
nature.
With a step light and noiseless as that of her favourite spaniel who
crept behind her, did Constance make an early visit to ascertain the
safety of her prisoner. His retreat was unmolested. The pursuit was for
the present evaded, and his enemies thrown out in their track. It was
needful, however, that he should remain for a few days in his present
concealment, prior to the attempt by which he purposed to regain his
native country.
Constance loved the moonlight. The broad glare of day is so garish and
extravagant. Besides, there is a restlessness and a buz no human being,
at least no sensible human being, can endure. Everything is on the stir.
Every creature, however paltry and insignificant, whether moth, mote, or
atom, seems busy. Whereas, one serene soft gaze of the moon appears to
allay nature's universal disquiet. The calm and mellow placidity of her
look, so heavenly and undisturbed, lulls the soul, and subdues its
operations to her influence.
Constance, we may suppose, accidentally wandered by the end of the
building, where, in the huge buttress of chimneys, a narrow crevice
admitted light into the chamber occupied by the fugitive. At times,
perhaps unconsciously, her eye wandered from the moon to this dreary
abode; where it lingered longest is more than we dare tell. She drew
nigh to the dark margin of the pond. The white swans were sleeping in
the sedge. At her approach they fluttered clumsily to their element;
there, the symbols of elegance and grace, like wreaths of sea-foam on
its surface, they glided on, apparently without an impulse or an effort.
She was gazing on them when a rustle amongst the willows on her left
arrested her attention. Soon the mysterious and almost omnipresent form
of Tyrone stood before her.
"I must away, maiden--Constance!" His voice was mournful as the last
faint sound of the evening bell upon the waters.
"Why art thou here?" She said this in a tone of mingled anxiety and
surprise.
"Here? Too long have I lingered in these woods and around thy dwelling,
Constance. But I must begone--for ever!"
"For ever?" cried the perplexed girl, forgetful of all but the dread
thought of that for ever!
"Ay, for ever? Why should I stay?"
This question, alas! she could not answer, but stood gazing on the dark
water, and on the silver waves which the bright swans had rippled over
the pool. Though she saw them not, yet the scene mingled itself
insensibly with the feelings then swelling in her bosom; and these
recurrent circumstances, in subsequent periods of her existence, never
failed to bring the same dark tide of thought over the soul with vivid
and agonising distinctness.
"Maiden, beware!"
Constance turned towards him:--the moonlight fell on his brow: the dark
curls swept nobly out from their broad shadows twining luxuriantly about
his cheek. His eyes were fixed on her, with an eagerness and an anguish
in their expression the most absorbing and intense.
"I have loved thee. Ay, if it be love to live whole nights on the memory
of a glance,--on a smile,--on the indelible impress of thy form.
Here,--here! But no living thing that I have loved;--no being that e'er
looked on me with kindliness and favour, that has not been marked out
for destruction. Oh, that those eyes had ne'er looked upon me! Thou wert
happy, and I have lingered on thy footstep till I have dragged thee to
the same gulph where all hope--all joy that e'er stole in upon my dark
path, must perish."
"Oh! do not foretaste thy misery thus," cried Constance. "The cruel
sufferings thou hast undergone make thee apprehensive of evil. But how
can _thy_ fate control my destiny?"
"How, I know not," said Tyrone, "save that it shall bring the same
clouds, in unmitigated darkness, about thy path. Dost thou love me? Nay,
start not. Stay not!" cried he, making way for the maiden to pass. But
Constance seemed unable to move,--terrified and speechless.
"Perchance, thou knowest it not, but thou wouldest love me as a woman
loves;--ay, beyond even the verge and extremity of hope! Even now the
poison rankles in thy bosom. Hark!--'tis the doom yon glorious
intelligences denounced from that glittering vault, when they proclaimed
my birth!"
He repeated the prediction as aforetime, with a deep, solemn
intonation:--the maiden's blood seemed to curdle with horror. A pause of
bewildering and mysterious terror followed. One brief minute in the
lapse of time,--but an age in the records of thought! Constance, fearful
of looking on the dark billows of the spirit, sought to avert her
glance.
"Thou art an exile, and misfortune prompted me to thy succour; thou hast
won my pity, stranger."
"Beshrew me, 'tis a wary and subtle deceiver, this same casuist love.
Believe him not!" said he, in a burst and agony of soul that made
Constance tremble. "He would lead thee veiled to the very brink of the
precipice, then snatch the shelter from thine eyes and bid thee leap!
Nay, 'tis not pride,--'tis the doom, the curse of my birthright that is
upon me. Maiden! I will but strike to thine heart, and then--poor soul!"
He shuddered; his voice grew tremulous and convulsed. "The stricken one
shall fall. Hark! the hounds are again upon my track!" The
well-practised ear of the hunted fugitive could discern the approach of
footsteps long before they were audible to an ordinary listener:--his
eye and ear seemed on the stretch;--his head bent forward in the same
direction;--he breathed not. Even Constance seemed to suspend the
current of her own thoughts at this interruption.
"They are approaching. In all likelihood 'tis a posse from the sheriff."
Again he listened. "They are armed. Nay, then, Tyrone thou must to
cover: thou canst not flee. Point not to the hiding-place I have left.
If, as I suspect, they bring a warrant of search, thy father's life may
be in jeopardy."
"Where,--oh, where?" said Constance, forgetful of all consequences, in
her anxiety for her father's fate and that of the illustrious stranger.
"In thy chamber, lady."
She drew back in dismay.
"Nay," continued he, guessing at the cause of her alarm. "They will not
care to scrutinise for me there with much exactness; and, by the faith
of my fathers, I will not wrong thee!"
There was a frankness, an open and undisguised freedom of manner, in
this address, which assured her. Her confidence returned, and she
committed herself promptly to the issue. She felt her soul expand with
the desire of contributing to his ultimate escape. All the ardour of her
nature was concentrated in this generous and self-devoted feeling. Too
innocent for suspicion she seemed to rise above its influence.
Silently, and with due caution, she led the unfortunate Earl to her own
chamber, where, in a recess opening through the bed's head into the
arras, he seemed secure from discovery.
Scarcely was this arrangement completed, ere a thundering knock
announced the visitor. It was an officer of justice, attended by some
half-dozen followers, who watched every avenue to the house whilst his
message was delivered within.
This official delivered into the hands of Holt a warrant for the
apprehension of O'Neale, Earl of Tyrone, a traitor, then suspected of
being harboured in the mansion of Grislehurst, whom the occupier was
commanded, on pain of being treated as an accomplice, to deliver into
the hands of justice, for the due administering of those pains and
penalties which were attached to his crime.
The loyal owner, fired with indignation at this foul charge, rebutting
the accusation with contempt.
"However loth," said the messenger, "I must execute mine office; and,
seeing this first mission hath failed in its purpose, I have here a
warrant of search. Mine orders are imperative."
"I tell thee I have no plotters lurking here. Search and welcome;--but
if thou findest aught in this house that smells of treason, the Queen
may blot out my escutcheon. I'll dismount the _pheon_. The arrow-head
shall return to its quiver. 'Twas honestly won, and, by our lady's
grace, it shall be honestly worn!"
"We must obey," said the officer; "it shall be done with all courtesy
and despatch."
Holt bit his lips with rage and vexation. From the suspicion of
harbouring and aiding the traitor Tyrone, his known loyalty and good
faith should have protected him. He hoped, however, to throw back on the
author of this foul slander the disgrace attached to it. Smothering his
wrath, and brooding over its gratification, he accompanied the
messenger, who, placing an additional guard at the main entrance,
proceeded with a wary eye to the search. He carefully scrutinised the
shape of the rooms, striking the walls and wainscots, measuring the
capacity of the chambers, that no space might be left unaccounted for
either in one way or another. The concealed apartment in the
chimney-range did not escape his examination. Closets, cupboards,
folding-doors,--even the family pictures were turned aside, lest some
strategem should lurk behind.
Holt, with a look of malicious satisfaction, beheld every fresh
disappointment, which he followed with undisguised expressions of
ill-will.
"Now for the women's apartments," said the officer.
"I have but one daughter. Dost fancy that treason may be stitched in her
petticoat? Thinkest thou she would hide this invisible gallant in her
bedchamber? 'Sdeath, that it should ha' come to this! But I'll have my
revenge."
"I would fain spare thee from this contumely, but"----
"But what?"
"I must search the house through; and though I doubt not now that our
information is false, yet I may not disobey the mandate I have
received."
"Is this thy courtesy?"
"My courtesy must yet consist with the true and honest discharge of mine
office. I wait not further parley."
A short gallery communicated from the stairhead to the private chamber
of Constance. They met her outside the door; and the timid girl grew
pale as she beheld the officer led on by her father.
"Constance," cried he, "thy chamber smacks of treason: it must be purged
from this suspicion. This mousing owl will search the crannies even of a
woman's wits ere he sate his appetite for discovery. Hast aught plotting
in the hem of thy purfle, or in thy holiday ruff and fardingale? Come
with us, wench;--the gallant Earl of Tyrone would sport himself bravely
in thy bedchamber, pretty innocent!"
"If my gallantry were akin to mine office,--then, lady, would I spare
thy bosom and mine own nature this extremity. Believe me, thou shall
suffer no rudeness at my hands."
The officer bowed low, observing her confusion and distress.
"Go with, us," said her father, "and leave not until our search is over.
Mayhap he may find a lover in thy shoe, or in the wrinkles of thy
rose-tie." He entered the chamber as he said this. It was a little room,
tricked out with great elegance and beauty. Indian cabinets were there,
and other costly ornaments, inlaid with ivory and pearl, in the
arrangement of which, and of the other furniture, considerable taste was
displayed. A lute lay in one corner;--tambour-work and embroidery
occupied a recess near the window;--the clothes' presses showed their
contents neatly folded, and carefully set out to the best advantage.
"I'faith, wench, thy chamber seems well fitted for so goodly a brace of
guests--not a thread awry. Everything in trim order for thy gallants,
mayhap. Thou hast not been at thy studies of late.--I have seen its
interior in somewhat less orderly fashion. I marvel if it might not be
pranked out for our coming. Now, to work, sir:--where does thy grubbing
begin?"
Constance posted herself in a gloomy corner, where she could watch their
proceedings almost unperceived. She hoped that in her chamber the search
would not be so strict as in situations of more likelihood and
probability for concealment. At any rate, the common feelings of
delicacy and respect,--not quite extinct, she observed, even in this
purveyor of justice,--would prevent any very exact and dangerous
scrutiny. Nor was she deceived. He merely felt round the walls, opened
the presses and closets, but did not disturb the bed furniture. He was
retiring from the search, when her father scornfully taunted him with
the ill success of his mission.
"I wonder thou hast not tumbled the bed topsy-turvy. I am glad to see
thou hast yet some grace and manners in thy vocation. Now, Sir
Messenger, to requite thee for this thy courtesy and forbearance, I will
show thee a secret tabernacle, which all thy prying has not been able to
discover."
Saying this he approached the bed: a spring was concealed in one of the
posts communicating with the secret door behind which Tyrone was hidden.
As he turned aside the drapery to ascertain precisely its situation,
Constance, no longer able to control her apprehension of discovery,
rushed before him. Her terror, for the time, threw her completely from
her guard.
"Do not, my father:--he must not look there. For my sake, oh, spare
_this_"----
She was silent:--her lips grew deadly pale; and she leaned against the
pillar for support. The officer's suspicions were awakened, and he gave
a shrewd guess at the truth.
"Now, fair dame," he cried: "it is but an ungracious office to thwart a
lady of her will, but I must see what lurks in that same secret recess.
Master Holt, I prythee help me to a peep behind the curtain."
But Holt was too much astonished to comply. What could exist there to
excite his daughter's apprehensions so powerfully, puzzled him greatly.
He had not a thought, the most remote, that could affect her
fidelity;--yet he hesitated. The officer, in a more peremptory tone,
demanded admission. Rousing from his stupor, and mortified at the folly
of these girlish fancies, he struck the spring: in a trice, a portion of
the bed's head flew open, displaying a dark chasm beyond. Swift as
thought the officer darted through the aperture; but the door was
immediately shut, and with great violence. A scuffle was heard within,
but not a word was spoken. Holt, in doubt and consternation gazed with a
wild and terrific aspect on the devoted Constance, who, covering her
face, sought to avoid seeing the expected result of her imprudence. Her
father now listened. There was a dread suspense in his look more fearful
than even the most violent outburst of his wrath. He seemed every moment
to expect some irrefragable proof,--some visible and overwhelming
conviction of his daughter's infamy. The door was still closed. Groans
were plainly audible, telling of some terrible strife within. Suddenly
these indications ceased. Holt shuddered. He fancied some foul act was
perpetrating--perhaps even now consummated--under his own roof; and
swift would be the vengeance required at his hands. Constance, too,
seemed to apprehend the commission of some deadly crime, as she threw
herself imploringly before her father.
"Save them,--oh, save them!--their strife is mortal!"
He shook her from him with a glance of abhorrence, and the maiden fell
heavily on the floor. He was preparing to enter when the door flew open,
and a form rushed through in the gaudy apparel of the officer. He leaped
on the floor, and, ere Holt could utter a word, he heard him descending
the stairs with great precipitation.
"Whom hast thou concealed in thy bedchamber?" inquired the almost
frantic father. Constance sat on the ground, her head resting on the
chair beside which she had fallen. She wept not, but her heart was full
even to bursting.
"What is the name of thy paramour?--Thou hast been somewhat eager,
methinks, to accomplish thine own and a father's disgrace?"