III.

"Forgive; 'tis but one short complaint,

One pang I would reveal:

The wretch upon the torturing rack

Is not forbid to feel!

Then laugh,--let merry hearts to-night

Their brightest wreaths entwine:

The flowers that bloom on every breast

Will, withering, fade on mine!"[35]

Many were the bright eyes glittering on him through their long silken

lashes; but Sir John looked downward,--diligently noting something

extraordinary in the disposition of his shoe-roses, or in the tie of his

garter.

"One raven will set another croaking," said Sir George.

"That we may escape a concert so detestable," cried out Buckingham, "let

Sir John Finett follow me, and we will reel with our fair dames, until

cares whirl off like sling-stones."

"And may he that tires first fiddle the witches' jig," said the sapient

king.

A burst of harsh music followed, and Sir John's feebly tinkling strings

were thrown aside. Never had he wished so anxiously for one short hour

of quietness; and right fain he was when the king retired to his

chamber. His duties for that day were over, and he strolled out from the

hot and oppressive atmosphere into a calm quiet moonlight. The cool

breeze came like a healing balm upon his spirit, the soft dew fell upon

his cheek,--but the fire in his veins burnt fiercely. His mistress's

form, her face, the sweet influence of her smile, were fixed indelibly

on his heart. Away from the bustle and cares of office,--which, like

waves on the surface, for a while effaced their image,--the whole

beauteous impression was revealed before him in all its loveliness and

truth. His heart bounded at the thought:--it was but for a moment. Again

he stood, hopeless and desolate, gazing upon the soft mist-wreath in the

valley, as though expecting it would render up the form of his beloved.

Suddenly the short swift steps of a steed were heard hurrying up the

avenue. A horseman approached the gateway: it was his friend, the

_soi-disant_ knight of the silver mantle!

"How now, Weldon![36]--whither have thy unlucky familiars carried thee?

Hast thou bestridden the enchanted horse, or wert thou bidden to a

witch-feast?"

"I have been to Myerscough with your message,--and the pains I have had

for my labour."

"My message!" said Sir John, with amazement: "I sent thee on no other

errand than to guard the lady, whom thou hast either made away with or

she hath slipped from thine hold."

"You are pleasant, Sir John. Your tricks are well enough in court-hours.

Come, be serious, and tell me thou hast had a fool's errand out of me."

"I never was more serious in my life, Weldon, I do vouch, as my head

shall swing safely on its pivot. But who gave thee a message--and to

whom?"

"To our fair hostess at Myerscough. Thy page thrust a scrap of writing

into my hand after prayers. The request was, that I should see the

accompanying billet safely delivered, and with mine own hand, without

loss of time. It was one of your curiously-folded fantastic

love-billets, as I thought. Knowing I could well be spared hence, I

immediately took horse, and came in a bath of foam to the lady; but when

she opened her pretty token, she drew herself erect with great majesty.

'Tell Sir John Finett,' said she, 'that when he next sends thee forth on

his fooleries, to choose another butt; to shoot his arrows where they

will stick, or his goose-feathers may fly back again.'"

Horror almost deprived Sir John of utterance. That some foul play had

been meditated, and in all probability accomplished, was but too plain;

but how, or by whom, was inscrutable as ever.

The page was straitly questioned; but he merely said that his message

was given him by some person he did not recognise in the crowd at the

chapel-doors, who said he was to seek Weldon forthwith, and deliver him

the papers from his master. What course to adopt, or where to begin

their search, were questions alike embarrassing and impossible to

answer. In the end they determined to lay the matter before the king on

the morrow.

It may be needful to go back a short space to "The Bower of Beautie,"

wherein the knight of the silver mantle, having safely ensconced

himself, as the reader may remember, the arras was let down; after

which, being wheeled away to their destination, they were to await for

the commencement of the masque. But the Silver Knight, lifting up the

curtain, observed they were much too early for the performance, and

courteously entreated the lady that she would alight. The evening was

hot, and the bower close and oppressive. An hour might, in all

probability, elapse ere their presence would be required. Grace,

trusting to her companion, quitted the car, strolling out amongst the

masks. Gradually they left the main crowd, unconsciously approaching the

steep brow of the hill, where, looking towards the east, they beheld the

broad red moon swinging out from the blue horizon. The loud hum of the

revellers came softly and pleasantly on the ear. It was an hour of

quietness and delight--a few hasty, happy moments snatched from these

gaudy hours--the pomp and circumstance of life. Would that Sir John had

been here in lieu of his friend! thought Grace. No, she did not think

so, but she felt as though such a thought might have been nursed into

being with little effort. They were now stealing down the hill, and the

dark waters of the Orr were leaping and bubbling at their feet.

"We must return," said the maiden, looking up, alarmed at seeing, for

the first time, that they were cut off from all connection and

intercourse with their companions. Her attendant was a perfect stranger,

except in name, and though counselled to rely implicity on his care by

the master of the ceremonies himself, she felt her situation

embarrassing and unpleasant.

"And why must we return?" said the mask. The tone startled her; its

expression was now soft and beseeching, as though he had before spoken

in a masked voice.

"Why!" said she, looking as though she would have pierced through his

disguise.

"Nay, whet not thy glance so keenly. I am not what I seem, and yet am

not unseemly."

"Your jests had been better timed had they taken a fitter season. I must

hence."

"Go not, my beauteous queen," said the stranger, taking her hand, which

she dashed from her with indignation and alarm. She was darting up the

crag, but was again detained.

"I will worship thee:--thou shall be my star--the axle of my thoughts.

All"----

"Unhand me, sir, or I'll call those who have the power to punish as well

as to humble thy presumption!"

"Whom wilt thou call, my pretty lamb? The wolf? The snake is scotched in

the bower, and I but beseech thy gratitude. How that look of scorn

becomes thee! Pout not so, my queen, or thou wilt indeed make an excuse

for my rudeness."

"How? Again this insult! Begone, or thou shalt rue that ever thy thought

escaped thy tongue. I'll report thee to thy betters."

"My betters! and who be they, maiden? Thou knowest me not, _perdie_.

Hath not Sir John Finett shorn his love-locks and eschewed thy service

after leaving thy bower the other night?"

This taunt raised her indignation to a blaze--her bosom swelled at the

rebuke.

Still he retained her hand--with the other she clung to a withered tree,

whose roots held insecurely by the rock. Making another effort, she

sprang from his grasp; but the tree was rent from its hold, and she fell

with it to the edge of the precipice. Ere the Silver Knight could

interpose, a faint shriek announced her descent: a swift crash was heard

amongst the boughs and underwood--a groan and a rebound. He saw her

disappear behind a crag. Then came one thrilling moment of terror, one

brief pause in that death-like stillness, and a heavy plunge was heard

in the gulf below! He listened--his perceptions grew more acute--eye and

ear so painfully susceptible, and their sensibility so keen, that the

mind scarcely distinguished its own reactions from realities--from

outward impressions on the sense. He thought he heard the gurgle and

the death-throe. Then the pale face of the maiden seemed to spring out

from the abyss. He rushed down the precipice. Entangled in the copsewood

and bushes, some time elapsed ere he gained the narrow path below. He

soon found, as in most other situations, the shortest road the

longest--that the beaten track would have brought him quicker to his

destination; but these nice calculations were forgotten. All pranked out

and bedizened as he was, the puissant knight plunged into the gulf; but

his exertions were fruitless, and he gave up the search. His love for

the maiden living and breathing did not prompt him to drown himself for

her corpse. With hasty steps he regained the Tower, where he doffed his

dripping garments unobserved.

Sir John Finett, by advice from his friend Weldon, determined on

acquainting their host with the lady's disappearance. They had a shrewd

suspicion that Buckingham was the contriver of this daring outrage;

though from his great power, influence, and audacity, they had

everything to fear and but little to hope from the result. Yet no time

should be lost in the attempt.

As they entered the hall, Sir Gilbert Hoghton and several of the guests

were still making merry after the feast. Calling him aside, they

communicated the dismal tidings.

"Grace Gerard amissing, say ye?"

"'Tis even so," said Sir John; "we have yet no clue to the search; but

this night shall not pass without the attempt, at any rate. In the

morning we will to the king with our complaint."

"Boy," said the baronet to his little henchman, "go to the woman's

suite, and rouse Grace Gerard's maid."

"The woman was in the kitchen some half hour agone, conveying her

mistress a warm draught, or some such puling diet," said the page.

"Haste," cried Sir John impatiently, marvelling at this unexpected

intelligence,--"the lad is blinded by some misapprehension. I'll forfeit

my best jewel she is not in her chamber. This interlude works i' the

plot--part of the trickery now enacting."

But the page made a quick return.

"What news?" said Finett.

"The lady is gone to rest; something discomposed, though, and out of

spirits. So says her maiden, whom I would have questioned more

straitly, but she rebuked me sharply for my impertinence."

"Pray you send and question her," said Sir John.

"Nay," returned Sir Gilbert, smiling, "I'll be bound the lady is safe;

and her maiden has other guess-matters to look to than letting out the

secrets of her mistress's chamber."

They were obliged to rest satisfied, or rather unsatisfied, with this

answer. But the mystery was more and more inexplicable. Either some

laughable mistake or some deep-laid villany was intended. Sir John dared

not pursue the subject to this extremity. He felt assured of her purity

and honour. Her manners, so confiding and unsuspicious, showed a heart

unacquainted with guile.

After a sleepless night Sir John arose, feverish and unrefreshed. He

threw open the window of his chamber, which looked into the courtyard.

Near a side postern stood a grey palfrey, caparisoned for a lady's use,

and impatiently awaiting its burden. The hour was too early for morning

rambles, but the beast was evidently equipped for a journey. Two other

steeds were now led forth, as if for the attendants. He caught a glimpse

of Grace Gerard's maid, who seemed, by her dress, to be of the party

whose movements he was so anxious to ascertain. He suspected this sudden

departure was for the purpose of escaping without his observance. He

hurried towards the stairs: just entering the corridor, he met Grace

Gerard. She was evidently confused at his appearance. It was but for a

moment; her spirit grappled with the occasion; and she replied firmly,

and with becoming dignity, to his questions.

"Whither away, our beauteous queen?" said he, bowing almost to the

ground. "Are you bound for some isle of the Western Ind, getting the

start of Phoebus in his nightly race to those gem-bearing climes?

Methinks the sun is departing from us, though but just risen."

"'Tis my purpose to depart, Sir John. This clime is too bright, and its

beams too fervid, for a lady's eye."

"One word in sober speech:--Wherefore?"

"I know your question, Sir John. Time hastens, and I reply. Your knight

of the silver mantle I proclaim a recreant, as treacherous as he is

base. Sir John, for my--no, for your own sake"----

"Another stole into his place," said he, interrupting her with great

eagerness. "A base-born changeling!--some villain, who, under this

disguise, abused our honourable intent; but say, peerless princess, to

whose prowess we owe your rescue."

"'Tis my first venture into the unhallowed limits of your licentious

court; and through the grace that hath preserved me harmless, I here

resolve it shall be my last. By your instructions, Sir John, I relied

implicitly on the protection of your friend. He would fain have abused

his trust, but I escaped from the offered insult. Struggling to free my

hand from his grasp, by yonder hill-side, I lost my footing. I fell down

the steep unhurt. Fear lent me unwonted strength, and I escaped unseen,

round the narrow pathway. My discourteous knight thought, doubtless, I

had tumbled into the roaring abyss; for the night mist hung below, and I

heard a huge fragment of rock, loosened in my descent, plunge into the

dimly-rolling waters. Now, hear me: my resolve is taken, and no earthly

influence or persuasion shall stay me. 1 was bewildered, yet flattered

by your follies: foolish and thoughtless enough to frolic and flutter on

the very brink of a precipice. I was dazzled by the glittering but

dangerous excitement. Conscience spoke, but I durst not listen. My

course of life hitherto has been through scenes of gentleness and peace,

and I could not look on your bustle and dissipation without alarm. Yet

was I persuaded to mingle in your sports yesterday--that day hallowed by

the last fiat of its Creator, wherein the soul, freed awhile from the

cares of earth, may prostrate itself in homage before Him who said, 'It

is mine!' Justly punished for trifling with my better thoughts, my

escape shall not be without its acknowledgment."

Sir John was silent. She stood before him like some purer, brighter

thing than could be deemed akin to this polluted earth.

"Those siren waves were bearing me on to the gulf where"--She paused a

moment, shuddering at the dark retrospect of the past. "Where all your

pomp and pageantry will be overwhelmed, and yourselves, for ever, in the

same irretrievable ruin!"

Sir John looked uneasy, and his eye wandered, as if in search of some

object wherewith to throw off these gloomy anticipations. The maiden

again spoke:--

"It seemed as though a veil, invisible heretofore, were suddenly

undrawn. The glory and the baseness, the splendour and the pollution,

were at once revealed. The hand unseen had drawn it aside. I would now

shun--I hope for ever--- these paths of folly; and I bid farewell to

your pleasures without a murmur or a regret."

Sir John, courtier though he was, ardently and willingly rendering

homage at the shrine of pleasure and dissipation, was awe-struck.

Conscience echoed a fearful response; and he shrank before the reproof

he could not shun.

"Without regret!" said he, faltering and abashed. "I had hoped--perhaps

wished--but it was too presumptuous. My purest thoughts would have

sullied so pure a shrine."

"Stay, Sir John; though the confession be humbling to a maiden's pride,

yet my heart tells me 'tis the last time we meet; and it is the only

acknowledgment,--I render it to your honesty and good faith." Her voice

grew hesitating and tremulous. "There was a tendril twining about my

heart; but it is wrung off, and I am again--alone!"

Her heart was full, and her whole frame convulsed by some overpowering

emotion. An adieu died upon her lips; but she resolutely refused any

further communication. Hastening to the courtyard, she mounted her

little white palfry, and quitted for ever those fascinating and

dangerous allurements, which, having once felt, few have had the power

to withstand.

We need scarcely add, that, amid the gaieties and splendours by which

the lover was enthralled, the recollection of Grace Gerard sometimes

mingled in the revelries of this votary of pleasure. It often came as a

warning and a rebuke. By degrees the impression grew less powerful. Each

succeeding wave from the ever-tossing ocean left the traces less

distinct, until they were overwhelmed in the dull tide of oblivion.

NOTE ON THE BALLAD, p. 269.

The _music_ to these words is _traditionary_, if we may be allowed the

expression. It is one of the many wild and characteristic melodies

floating about, perhaps unappropriated, on the popular breath, varied

indefinitely according to the humour of the performer. The author has

listened to several of these ditties; some of them he thinks peculiar to

this and the neighbouring counties. They are generally sung by the

labouring classes, and would, in many cases, defy any attempt to commit

them to writing, being apparently founded upon a ratio of tones and

semitones at variance with our diatonic scale. From this we might almost

be led to imagine some truth in the theory that the ancients had

different scales peculiar to their different moods: a theory which,

however impossible it may be considered, is not without its advocates,

who will perhaps not be displeased to find here some slight confirmation

of their opinions. Yet in these songs the prevailing character of the

minor key may generally be detected, which, from its being imperfect,

and probably vitiated by the mistakes of these rustic melodists, may

give a colour to the notion of a change in the scale.

The great antiquity of these melodies is unquestionable, and it would be

an interesting inquiry to trace them back through remote ages, perhaps

to the Jewish temple and the tent of the patriarchs. The author has

found in them a strong resemblance to the Hebrew music, sounds which,

since the captivity of the Jews in Babylon, and the destruction of their

temple, 606 B.C., and in consequence of musical instruments being

afterwards forbidden, they have clung to with increased tenacity,

preserving their ancient melodies, and bequeathing them by memory from

one generation to another with the same jealous care that a miser would

his treasure, and as the last melancholy relics of a "kingdom passed

away."

Algarotti says, "Those airs alone remain for ever engraven on the memory

of the public, that paint images to the mind, or express the passions,

and are for that reason called the speaking airs, because more congenial

to nature, which can never be justly imitated but by a beautiful

simplicity, that will always bear away the palm from the most laboured

refinement of art."

The author has ventured to give the following air, which he fancies

would almost suggest the words of the song to which Sir John Finett is

supposed to have appropriated it. As we have before mentioned, the tune

is traditionary, possessing some of the peculiar characteristics we have

described. It bears a considerable resemblance to the ancient Jewish

music, and likewise to the airs generally given to the little snatches

of old ballads in Shakespeare's plays, which are supposed to have been

handed down successively from the performers in his time; being then

probably "household" music more ancient than the ballads themselves.

This opinion seems warranted by the poet himself in that beautiful

allusion, with which he introduces one of the songs of the _Clown_, in

Twelfth Night--

"Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love

Like the old age."

[Illustration: Music]