He counsels a divorce
Shakespeare, KING HENRY VIII.
In the spring of the year 1572, a family council was assembled in Hurst
Walwyn Hall. The scene was a wainscoted oriel chamber closed off by a
screen from the great hall, and fitted on two sides by presses of books,
surmounted the one by a terrestrial, the other by a celestial globe, the
first ‘with the addition of the Indies’ in very eccentric geography, the
second with enormous stars studding highly grotesque figures, regarded
with great awe by most beholders.
A solid oaken table stood in the midst, laden with books and papers, and
in a corner, near the open hearth, a carved desk, bearing on one slope
the largest copy of the ‘Bishops’ Bible’; on the other, one of the
Prayer-book. The ornaments of the oaken mantelpiece culminated in a
shield bearing a cross _boutonnee_, i.e. with trefoil terminations. It
was supported between a merman with a whelk shell and a mermaid with a
comb, and another like Siren curled her tail on the top of the gaping
baronial helmet above the shield, while two more upheld the main weight
of the chimney-piece on either side of the glowing wood-fire.
In the seat of honour was an old gentleman, white-haired, and feeble
of limb, but with noble features and a keen, acute eye. This was
Sir William, Baron of Hurst Walwyn, a valiant knight at Guingate and
Boulogne, a statesman of whom Wolsey had been jealous, and a ripe
scholar who had shared the friendship of More and Erasmus. The lady who
sat opposite to him was several years younger, still upright, brisk and
active, though her hair was milk-white; but her eyes were of undimmed
azure, and her complexion still retained a beauteous pink and white. She
was highly educated, and had been the friend of Margaret Roper and her
sisters, often sharing their walks in the bright Chelsea garden. Indeed,
the musk-rose in her own favourite nook at Hurst Walwyn was cherished as
the gift of Sir Thomas himself.
Near her sat sister, Cecily St. John, a professed nun at Romsey till
her twenty-eight year, when, in the dispersion of convents, her sister’s
home had received her. There had she continued, never exposed to tests
of opinion, but pursuing her quiet course according to her Benedictine
rule, faithfully keeping her vows, and following the guidance of the
chaplain, a college friend of Bishop Ridley, and rejoicing in the use of
the vernacular prayers and Scriptures. When Queen Mary had sent for her
to consider of the revival of convents, her views had been found to have
so far diverged from those of the Queen that Lord Walwyn was thankful
to have her safe at home again; and yet she fancied herself firm to
old Romsey doctrine. She was not learned, like Lady Walwyn, but her
knowledge in all needlework and confectionery was consummate, so that
half the ladies in Dorset and Wilts longed to send their daughters to
be educated at Hurst Walwyn. Her small figure and soft cheeks had
the gentle contour of a dove’s form, nor had she lost the conventual
serenity of expression; indeed it was curious that, let Lady Walwyn
array her as she would, whatever she wore bore a nunlike air. Her silken
farthingales hung like serge robes, her ruffs looked like mufflers, her
coifs like hoods, even necklaces seemed rosaries, and her scrupulous
neatness enhanced the pure unearthly air of all belonging to her.
Eager and lively, fair and handsome, sat the Baronne de Ribaumont,
or rather, since the higher title had been laid aside, Dame Annora
Thistlewood. The health of M. de Ribaumont had been shattered at St.
Quentin, and an inclement night of crossing the Channel had brought on
an attack on the lungs, from which he only rallied enough to amaze
his English friends at finding the gay dissipated young Frenchman they
remembered, infinitely more strict and rigid than themselves. He was
never able to leave the house again after his first arrival at Hurst
Walwyn, and sank under the cold winds of the next spring, rejoicing
to leave his wife and son, not indeed among such strict Puritans as
he preferred, but at least where the pure faith could be openly avowed
without danger.
Sir Marmaduke Thistlewood, the husband to whom Annora Walwyn had been
destined before M. de Ribaumont had crossed her path, was about the same
time left a widower with one son and daughter, and as soon as a suitable
interval had passed, she became a far happier wife than she had been in
either the Baron’s gay or grave days. Her son had continued under
the roof of his grandfather, to whose charge his father had specially
committed him, and thus had been scarcely separated from his mother,
since Combe Manor was not above three miles across the downs from Hurst
Walwyn, and there was almost daily intercourse between the families.
Lucy Thistlewood had been brought to Hurst Walwyn to be something
between a maid of honour and a pupil to the ladies there, and her
brother Philip, so soon as he was old enough, daily rode thither to
share with Berenger the instructions of the chaplain, Mr. Adderley, who
on the present occasion formed one of the conclave, sitting a little
apart as not quite familiar, though highly esteemed.
With an elbow on the table, and one hand toying with his long
riding-whip, sat, booted and spurred, the jovial figure of Sir
Marmaduke, who called out, in his hearty voice, ‘A good riddance of an
outlandish Papist, say I! Read the letter, Berenger lad. No, no, no!
English it! I know nothing of your mincing French! ‘Tis the worst fault
I know in you, boy, to be half a Frenchman, and have a French name’--a
fault that good Sir Marmaduke did his best to remedy by always terming
his step-son Berenger or Berry Ribmount, and we will so far follow
his example as henceforth to give the youth the English form of his
Christian name. He was by this time a tall lad of eighteen, with
straight features, honest deep blue eyes, very fair hair cut short and
brushed up to a crest upon the middle of his head, a complexion of red
and white that all the air of the downs and the sea failed to embrown,
and that peculiar openness and candour of expression which seems so much
an English birthright, that the only trace of his French origin was,
that he betrayed no unbecoming awkwardness in the somewhat embarrassing
position in which he was placed, literally standing, according to the
respectful discipline of the time, as the subject of discussion, before
the circle of his elders. His colour was indeed, deepened, but his
attitude was easy and graceful, and he used no stiff rigidity nor
restless movements to mask his anxiety. At Sir Marmaduke’s desire, he
could not but redden a good deal more, but with a clear, unhesitating
voice, he translated, the letter that he had received from the Chevalier
de Ribaumont, who, by the Count’s death, had become Eustacie’s guardian.
It was a request in the name of Eustacie and her deceased father, that
Monsieur le Baron de Ribaumont--who, it was understood, had embraced
the English heresy--would concur with his spouse in demanding from his
Holiness the Pope a decree annulling the childish marriage, which could
easily be declared void, both on account of the consanguinity of the
parties and the discrepancy of their faith; and which would leave each
of them free to marry again.
‘Nothing can be better,’ exclaimed his mother. ‘How I have longed to
free him from that little shrew, whose tricks were the plague of my
life! Now there is nothing between him and a worthy match!’
‘We can make an Englishman of him now to the backbone,’ added Sir
Marmaduke, ‘and it is well that it should be the lady herself who wants
first to be off with it, so that none can say he has played her a scurvy
trick.’
‘What say you, Berenger?’ said Lord Walwyn. ‘Listen to me, fair nephew.
You know that all my remnant of hope is fixed upon you, and that I have
looked to setting you in the room of the son of my own; and I think that
under our good Queen you will find it easier to lead a quiet God-fearing
life than in your father’s vexed country, where the Reformed religion
lies under persecution. Natheless, being a born liegeman of the King of
France, and heir to estates in his kingdom, meseemeth that before you
are come to years of discretion it were well that you should visit them,
and become better able to judge for yourself how to deal in this matter
when you shall have attained full age, and may be able to dispose of
them by sale, thus freeing yourself from allegiance to a foreign prince.
And at the same time you can take measures, in concert with this young
lady, for loosing the wedlock so unhappily contracted.’
‘O sir, sir!’ cried Lady Thistlewood, ‘send him not to France to be
burnt by the Papists!’
‘Peace, daughter,’ returned her mother. ‘Know you not that there is
friendship between the court party and the Huguenots, and that the peace
is to be sealed by the marriage of the King’s sister with the King of
Navarre? This is the most suitable time at which he could go.’
‘Then, madam,’ proceeded the lady, ‘he will be running about to all the
preachings on every bleak moor and wet morass he can find, catching his
death with rheums, like his poor father.’
There was a general smile, and Sir Marmaduke laughed outright.
‘Nay, dame,’ he said, ‘have you marked such a greed of sermons in our
Berry that you should fear his so untowardly running after them?’
‘Tilly-vally, Sir Duke,’ quoth Dame Annora, with a flirt of her fan,
learnt at the French court. ‘Men will run after a preacher in a marshy
bog out of pure forwardness, when they will nod at a godly homily on a
well-stuffed bench between four walls.’
‘I shall commit that matter to Mr. Adderley, who is good enough to
accompany him,’ said Lord Walwyn, ‘and by whose counsel I trust that he
will steer the middle course between the pope and Calvin.’
Mr. Adderley bowed in answer, saying he hoped that he should be enable
to keep his pupil’s mind clear between the allurements of Popery and the
errors of the Reformed; but meanwhile Lady Thistlewood’s mind had taken
a leap, and she exclaimed,--
‘And, son, whatever you do, bring home the chaplet of pearls! I know
they have set their minds upon it. They wanted me to deck Eustacie with
it on that unlucky bridal-day, but I would not hear of trusting her with
it, and now will it rarely become our Lucy on your real wedding-day.’
‘You travel swiftly, daughter,’ said Lord Walwyn. ‘Nor have we yet heard
the thoughts of one who ever thinks wisely. Sister,’ he added, turning
to Cecily St. John, ‘hold not you with us in this matter?’
‘I scarce comprehend it, my Lord,’ was the gentle reply. ‘I knew not
that it was possible to dissolve the tie of wedlock.’
‘The Pope’s decree will suffice,’ said Lord Walwyn.
‘Yet, sir,’ still said the ex-nun, ‘methought you had shown me that the
Holly Father exceeded his power in the annulling of vows.’
‘Using mine own lessons against me, sweet sister?’ said Lord Walwyn,
smiling; ‘yet, remember, the contract was rashly made between two
ignorant babes; and, bred up as they have severally been, it were surely
best for them to be set free from vows made without their true will or
knowledge.’
‘And yet,’ said Cecily, perplexed, ‘when I saw my niece here wedded to
Sir Marmaduke, was it not with the words, ‘What God hath joined let no
man put asunder’?’
‘Good lack! aunt,’ cried Lady Thistlewood, ‘you would not have that poor
lad wedded to a pert, saucy, ill-tempered little moppet, bred up that
den of iniquity, Queen Catherine’s court, where my poor Baron never
trusted me after he fell in with the religion, and had heard of King
Antony’s calling me the Swan of England.’
At that moment there was a loud shriek, half-laugh, half-fright, coming
through the window, and Lady Thistlewood, starting up, exclaimed, ‘The
child will be drowned! Box their ears, Berenger, and bring them in
directly.’
Berenger, at her bidding, hurried out of the room into the hall, and
thence down a flight of steps leading into a square walled garden, with
a couple of stone male and female marine divinities accommodating their
fishy extremities as best they might on the corners of the wall. The
square contained a bowling-green of exquisitely-kept turf, that looked
as if cut out of green velvet, and was edged on its four sides by a
raised broad-paved walk, with a trimming of flower-beds, where the
earliest blossoms were showing themselves. In the centre of each side
another paved path intersected the green lawn, and the meeting of these
two diameters was at a circular stone basin, presided over by another
merman, blowing a conch on the top of a pile of rocks. On the gravelled
margin stood two distressed little damsels of seven and six years
old, remonstrating with all their might against the proceedings of
a roguish-looking boy of fourteen of fifteen, who had perched their
junior--a fat, fair, kitten-like element of mischief, aged about
five--_en croupe_ on the merman, and was about, according to her
delighted request, to make her a bower of water, by extracting the plug
and setting the fountain to play; but as the fountain had been still
all the winter, the plug was hard of extraction, especially to a young
gentleman who stood insecurely, with his feet wide apart upon pointed
and slippery point of rock-work; and Berenger had time to hurry up,
exclaiming, ‘Giddy pate! Dolly would Berenger drenched to the skin.’
‘And she has on her best blue, made out of mother’s French farthingale,’
cried the discreet Annora.
‘Do you know, Dolly, I’ve orders to box your ears, and send you in?’
added Berenger, as he lifted his half-sister from her perilous position,
speaking, as he did so, without a shade of foreign accent, though with
much more rapid utterance than was usual in England. She clung to him
without much alarm, and retaliated by an endeavour to box his ears,
while Philip, slowly making his way back to the mainland, exclaimed, ‘Ah
there’s no chance now! Here comes demure Mistress Lucy, and she is the
worst mar-sport of all.’
A gentle girl of seventeen was drawing near, her fair delicately-tinted
complexion suiting well with her pale golden hair. It was a sweet face,
and was well set off by the sky-blue of the farthingale, which, with
her white lace coif and white ruff, gave her something the air of a
speedwell flower, more especially as her expression seemed to have
caught much of Cecily’s air of self-restrained contentment. She held
a basketful of the orange pistils of crocuses, and at once seeing that
some riot had taken place, she said to the eldest little girl, ‘Ah, Nan,
you had been safer gathering saffron with me.’
‘Nay, brother Berry came and made all well,’ said Annora; ‘and he had
been shut up so long in the library that he must have been very glad to
get out.’
‘And what came of it?’ cried Philip. ‘Are you to go and get yourself
unmarried?’
‘Unmarried!’ burst out the sisters Annora and Elizabeth.
‘What, laughed Philip, ‘you knew not that this is an ancient husband,
married years before your father and mother?’
‘But, why? said Elizabeth, rather inclined to cry. ‘What has poor Lucy
done that you should get yourself unmarried from her?’
There was a laugh from both brothers; but Berenger, seeing Lucy’s
blushes, restrained himself, and said. ‘Mine was not such good luck,
Bess, but they gave me a little French wife, younger than Dolly, and
saucier still; and as she seems to wish to be quit of me, why, I shall
be rid of her.’
‘See there, Dolly,’ said Philip, in a warning voice, ‘that is the way
you’ll be served if you do not mend your ways.’
‘But I thought,’ said Annora gravely, ‘that people were married once for
all, and it could not be undone.’
‘So said Aunt Cecily, but my Lord was proving to her out of all law
that a contract between such a couple of babes went for nought,’ said
Berenger.
‘And shall you, indeed, see Paris, and all the braveries there?’ asked
Philip. ‘I thought my Lord would never have trusted you out of his
sight.’
‘And now it is to be only with Mr. Adderley,’ said Berenger; ‘but there
will be rare doings to be seen at this royal wedding, and maybe I shall
break a lance there in your honour, Lucy.’
‘And you’ll bring me a French fan?’ cried Bess.
‘And me a pouncet-box?’ added Annora.
‘And me a French puppet dressed Paris fashion?’ said Dolly.
‘And what shall he bring Lucy?’ added Bess.
‘I know,’ said Annora; ‘the pearls that mother is always talking about!
I heard her say that Lucy should wear them on her wedding-day.’
‘Hush!’ interposed Lucy, ‘don’t you see my father yonder on the step,
beckoning to you?’
The children flew towards Sir Marmaduke, leaving Berenger and Lucy
together.
‘Not a word to wish me good speed, Lucy, now I have my wish?’ said
Berenger.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lucy, ‘I am glad you should see all those brave French
gentlemen of whom you used to tell me.’
‘Yes, they will be all at court, and the good Admiral is said to be in
high favour. He will surely remember my father.’
‘And shall you see the lady?’ asked Lucy, under her breath.
‘Eustacie? Probably; but that will make no change. I have heard too much
of _l’escadron de la Reine-mere_ to endure the thought of a wife from
thence, were she the Queen of Beauty herself. And my mother says that
Eustacie would lose all her beauty as she grew up--like black-eyed Sue
on the down; nor did I ever think her brown skin and fierce black eyes
to compare with you, Lucy. I could be well content never to see her
more; but,’ and here he lowered his voice to a tone of confidence, ‘my
father, when near his death, called me, and told me that he feared my
marriage would be a cause of trouble and temptation to me, and that I
must deal with it after my conscience when I was able to judge in
the matter. Something, too, he said of the treaty of marriage being
a burthen on his soul, but I know not what he meant. If ever I saw
Eustacie again, I was to give her his own copy of Clement Marot’s
Psalter, and to tell her that he had ever loved and prayed for her as a
daughter; and moreover, my father added,’ said Berenger, much moved at
the remembrance it brought across him, ‘that if this matter proved a
burthen and perplexity to me, I was to pardon him as one who repented of
it as a thing done ere he had learnt to weigh the whole world against a
soul.’
‘Yes, you must see her,’ said Lucy.
‘Well, what more were you going to say, Lucy?’
‘I was only thinking,’ said Lucy, as she raised her eyes to him, ‘how
sorry she will be that she let them write that letter.’
Berenger laughed, pleased with the simplicity of Lucy’s admiration, but
with modesty and common sense enough to answer, ‘No fear of that, Lucy,
for an heiress, with all the court gallants of France at her feet.’
‘Ah, but you!’
‘I am all very well here, when you have never seen anybody but lubberly
Dorset squires that never went to London, nor Oxford, nor beyond their
own furrows,’ said Berenger; ‘but depend upon it, she has been bred up
to care for all the airs and graces that are all the fashion at Paris
now, and will be as glad to be rid of an honest man and a Protestant
as I shall to be quit of a court puppet and a Papist. Shall you have
finished my point-cuffs next week, Lucy? Depend upon it, no gentleman of
them all will wear such dainty lace of such a fancy as those will be.’
And Lucy smiled, well pleased.
Coming from the companionship of Eustacie to that of gentle Lucy had
been to Berenger a change from perpetual warfareto perfect supremacy,
and his preference to his little sister, as he had been taught to call
her from the first, had been loudly expressed. Brother and sister they
had ever since considered themselves, and only within the last few
months had possibilities been discussed among the elders of the family,
which oozing out in some mysterious manner, had become felt rather than
known among the young people, yet without altering the habitual terms
that existed between them. Both were so young that love was the merest,
vaguest dream to them; and Lucy, in her quiet faith that Berenger was
the most beautiful, excellent, and accomplished cavalier the earth
could afford, was little troubled about her own future share in him. She
seemed to be promoted to belong to him just as she had grown up to curl
her hair and wear ruffs and farthingales. And to Berenger Lucy was
a very pleasant feature in that English home, where he had been far
happier than in the uncertainties of Chateau Leurre, between his naughty
playfellow, his capricious mother, and morose father. If in England his
lot was to be cast, Lucy was acquiesced in willingly as a portion of
that lot.