THE INTERVIEW.
The morning sun rose as clear and lovely on the day that Wolsey left
Ipswich for his last visit to Freston Tower as it did upon the day of
his first visit. But how different were the sensations of the man in
the few short years which had intervened between the hour of buoyant
love, and that of painful compliance with a request which any other
man would have studiously avoided!
It was quite true that he felt himself independent; but was he really
so? It is true that he was not dependent upon the smile of De
Freston, or the generosity of his relative, Edmund Daundy, or upon
any friend in Ipswich.
He rode out of his native town, along that beautiful strand, in the
morning sun, with a gloomy heart--a heart which nature, or rather the
God of nature, had gifted with a sensitiveness and grace which now
the spirit within him had resisted, but had not quite banished.
Whoever sins against philanthropy cannot be happy in spirit, let his
knowledge embrace an insight into every book that ever was written or
printed in the world. Nothing but the love of our fellow-creatures
can make any work of any mind pleasant to the soul of the Christian.
Men may be selfish in gaining knowledge, but what is the use of
finding a treasure, if it is only to be selfishly enjoyed? for
intelligence, except it can be used to enlighten others, would make
its possessor only the more miserable.
Wolsey used to journey in the days of his poverty with pure love in
his heart--love for De Freston and his daughter--love for his father,
his mother, his uncle, hu friends. He loved none of these now, and
this made the Orwell so dull and gloomy in his sight.
He was on his way to that hospitable hall, where all was mirth and
harmony within at the prospect of the marriage which was to take
place on the morrow. The banks of the river were as green as in
former days, the swallows were as lively, boys were bathing, ships
were sailing, boats were moving, birds were singing, nature smiling;
the difference was in Wolsey, and not in the things around him. The
monastery of St. Peter's frowned upon him as he crossed the ford of
Stoke, monks were chanting matins, country folk bringing in their
produce from the farm-yard, and smiling health animating some lively
lass who was paying her first visit to the great provincial town of
Suffolk.
Stern were Wolsey's features, as deep thought sat upon his brow. He
saw not the bows which foot passengers gave him. His eye seemed
fixed upon some mental object. He was absorbed in his own
reflections, thinking of those who were his friends, and of the
manner in which he should receive their welcome.
De Freston had been his patron in days past; but De Freston could be
of no service to him now. He was now a priest, and a priest must not
feel as other men do. He must be more dignified, more reserved, more
distant, more exalted. He was a priest of Rome; he must forget that
he was ever a poor scholar at Ipswich, fostered and cherished by many
friends, and sent to Oxford by their kindness and patronage. He was
a priest of Rome! Rome must be now his patron; Rome must claim every
secret impulse of his heart, and all his kindred must be forgotten.
Something of offence arose out of De Freston's preference in
bestowing the hand of his daughter upon Latimer. Something of
offence suggested itself in Ellen's preference of his friend, and
towards Latimer a sort of aversion sprang up on account of his
successful rivalry. But human nature must be subdued. The decree of
Rome forbade any such ideas to be entertained; not on account of any
exigency of the times, but because the priests could not, without
this decided law of privation, be trained in the way of implicit
obedience. If Wolsey really loved Ellen, he would have been glad to
hear of her happiness, even though she had preferred his friend
Latimer.
In self-sacrifices for the promotion of another's happiness, there is
ever a noble and graceful love, which carries with it unspeakable
admiration. But this passion of Wolsey's had given way to a
misanthropic philosophy, which ever after induced him to look with
disregard upon the ties of mutual affection.
At the time he was moving along the strand, he was as sharp an
ascetic as any monk whose monastery he afterwards caused to be
destroyed. At last, Freston Tower broke upon his view, glittering as
it did in the morning sun of a lovely June day, without any
exclamation of pleasure. No longer did his heart bound at the sight,
as if he was about to see those who loved him, and those whom he had
loved. Time was that he would have wished for a horse to have borne
him to that lovely Tower, and few would have gone fast enough to have
answered the quick and lively energy of the young aspirant for
everything laudable, honorable, and good. Now he was moving in
solemn state, without any apparent emotion of joy or sorrow.
By Bishop Goldwell he was much admired, and had received wonderful
encouragement from him to devote himself to the good of the Church.
Alice, too, the proud Alice, had promised to work him a piece of
altar tapestry whenever he should be presented with preferment. Did
he then contrast this unfeeling woman, superstitious and cold as she
was, with the mild, amiable, and lovely Ellen?
He was espied from the Tower by the fair one, who waved her hand from
the sunny chamber, where they had so often met.
'Here he comes, Latimer. Here he comes! but how slowly he moves.
Perhaps he is thinking of the days of his youth, and weighing in his
learned mind the thought whether he is happier now than he was then;
for he takes no notice of our salutation, though his face seems
lifted to the Tower.'
'He is perhaps conning over some passage of the poets, or thinking of
some deep logical question of the schools. He is very often lost in
thought.'
'But this is not a time, William, for Thomas Wolsey to forget us. He
must surely be thinking of us. He cannot fail to discern us. Or
does he think it beneath the dignity of his office to come on merrily
to the marriage feast?'
'I know not, Ellen, but that you may find Wolsey a little changed in
this respect. At no time of my acquaintance with him did he fail in
self-esteem or self-deportment: and we have not often seen him on
horseback. Had we not better receive him in the hall?'
'Is it so, indeed, William? and are we to forget that in this very
room we have spent so many joyful hours of literary pleasure? I
shall be almost sorry that I wrote to him to come, if thus it should
seem by his progress that he was performing a penance rather than
promoting love! Let us, however, receive him with respect in the
hall, as he has become so great a man as not to recognise us in the
Tower.'
Wolsey had recognised his former friends; he even saw their hands
waving from the fifth story; but the man had no answering delight to
say, 'My heart is glad,' or, 'God be praised that you are well!' All
feeling was dormant, even the salutation of the poor old lodge
gate-keeper elicited no recognition.
'Dame, I say,' said the old man, as he addressed his aged partner,
'pride is come home from a distance, and I have opened the park gates
to the visitor.'
'What art thou talking of? what dost thou mean?' she replied.
'I mean to say, that I have opened the gate to Master Wolsey, and he
is gone up the park; and if he meets my lord and lady as he has done
me, he'll turn all our merrymaking into misery.'
'What, the lively Master Thomas grown proud! Well a'day, well a'day!
Men's fortunes will sometimes change their faces, and Arthur Burch
told me Master Thomas was grown a great man!'
De Freston was made aware of Wolsey's coming; he waited not for his
formal announcement; but came from the hall across the drawbridge in
company with Ellen and Latimer to welcome their friend.
Oh, that word _friend_! How dreadfully is it abused! How often made
a mere conventional term, and used in the world just as interest may
prompt, or anything be got by it. One true one is better than a host
of pretenders, and a man without that one is miserable. To look for
many, is not to know the world; to value one when you have found him
is to possess wisdom. Ice, in summer; hail, in harvest time; and a
swallow in winter, are as congenial, as a cold and heartless friend
meeting you in the day of your rejoicing. Fond hearts met Wolsey at
the entrance to Freston Hall. Fond hearts beaming with love,
rejoicing in his arrival, and bounding to make him welcome. But they
could not fail to remark how stately he had grown! how very
dignified! how distant, grand, and great.
'Ha! Thomas, my friend! Welcome to De Freston's Hall!'
'I thank thee, thy daughter, and her friend!' with a most courteous
bow of seemingly profound respect, which at once killed all the
natural joy of the interview, and told the nobleman that an
ambassador from Rome had arrived, in the place of that cheerful
friend who was once the delight of his hall.
Wolsey was stately, not uncourteous. He had schooled himself most
admirably, and acted his part with all the precision of an
accomplished performer.
So gentlemanly in his external deportment, but resolved to show no
intimacy; so very easy in his manner, that no one could be affronted;
and yet so little heart, that Ellen could have burst into tears at
the strange alteration of the man who once was her liveliest
companion.
The very domestics, anticipating from Arthur's account the arrival of
a great man, and who had so associated Thomas Wolsey with all that
was cheerful and gay, becoming, and pleasant, were petrified at the
stately gaze with which he seemed to contemplate the architecture of
the hall, and the little notice he took of any one in it.
'We have friends to meet thee, Master Wolsey,' said De Freston,
evidently convinced that some more distant form was now necessary.
'Some of thy oldest friends will be with us at the hour of noon.
They will be delighted to greet thee, after so long an absence.'
Wolsey's reply shot like a shaft--ay, and a well-aimed one it was--to
the hearts of Latimer and Ellen.
'I suppose thy friend, Bishop Goldwell, and Alice, his niece, have
consented to be here.'
'Indeed they have not; nor have we invited them, for, since the day
of Ivan's death, we have never exchanged a word.'
'I can only regret it,' replied Wolsey. 'He is a man whose
acquaintance I should have courted, and his niece a fit companion for
thy daughter. I thought they had been intimate.'
'Their characters are very dissimilar.'
'That should be no bar to friendship.'
'But I know that Bishop Goldwell does not admire thy friend Latimer,
and that he is the aversion of Alice.'
'On such an occasion as this, distances should be abridged, and
differences of opinion softened, wounds healed, and friends united.'
'I agree with thee, Wolsey; thy doctrine is herein sound, but
somewhat opposed to thy practice.'
'Ah! how so?'
'Thou thyself art not thyself as formerly. Thy bearing is widely
different; thy manner, speech, and conduct, have undergone a great
change.'
'I am a priest; yet I am here to-day by thine invitation. Why not
Bishop Goldwell and his niece?'
'They are not our kin.'
'And I now have no kin, no connexions, no property, no friends, but
the church, to which I am henceforth devoted.'
'Does that destroy thy former friendships?'
'It cancels every one: I have given them up!--forsaken them all!--and
I shall follow the Church of Rome, of which I am her devoted servant.'
'And so,' said Ellen, 'I may address thee no longer as my learned and
dear friend--my choice companion--my tutor--my relative and
associate, but simply as "Your Reverence?"'
'I am come to perform a duty, Mistress Ellen, and if thou wouldst
have me discharge it gracefully, I pray thee mar not the dignity of
mine office by any allusions to the past.'
'I cannot forget what thou wast, Thomas Wolsey, both to me and to thy
friend Latimer, once our loving companion.'
'And now,' said Wolsey, with a bow of studied courtesy, 'the humble
servant of both!'
'No, Thomas Wolsey,' replied the maiden, 'thou art not humble at all!
Thy priesthood, Thomas, sits mournfully on thy years; and the wisdom
which used to ornament thy brow seems lost in outward stateliness. I
like thee not in thy change.'
'May be, Mistress Ellen, thou may'st one day think differently, and
then praise that reserve which now thou dost misinterpret.'
'It may be so, Thomas Wolsey! but my heart must be contracted instead
of being enlarged; my soul must bend to form and ceremony, and not to
love; and I must admire Alice De Clinton, and imitate her bearing,
and forget the friends who taught me truth, that I may be admitted to
the favor of a priest!'
Even the self-possessed Wolsey was abashed at this charge. His
well-schooled reserve was about to give way to generous impulses, and
thoughts of joy and thankfulness to God for such kind friends and
benefactors were beginning to rise in the heart; but over them all,
rose his vow of devotion to the church; and, denying himself where
self-denial was uncalled for, he rejected the spirit of love, and
feigned a momentary sickness.
He retired to his room to get the command of himself, leaving the
friends of his youth to talk over his estrangement. He nevertheless
attended the banquet, sat on the right hand of the betrothed, was
attentive and most punctilious in his devotions, spoke when
addressed, and yet offered no opinion of his own, nor put himself
forward to lead the converse; heard all, and reflected upon all,
surprised all, and pleased none; yet did he conduct himself with such
dignified exterior, that no man could say he transgressed the
strictest rules of decorum, or thought not of others as much as of
himself. It was difficult to decide upon such a point.
To his uncle, to his friends, to the assembled company at that
festive meeting, to De Freston and his daughter, to Latimer and his
father, who had through his son received such a favorable account of
him, he was the same dignified unaccountable being. Sir William
Latimer was never more astonished at seeing such a character as
Wolsey then appeared. His son had assured him that he had been the
means of his introduction to the University, and that he was his
bosom friend: nevertheless, nothing could be more distant than
Wolsey's manner and conversation with him.
He retired early to his room, to prepare himself for the last
ceremony he ever performed in his native town, and the last time he
saw his friends at Ipswich, though he never forgot the early steps of
education which he had there received.