Ye hae marred a bonnier face than your ain.
DYING WORDS OF THE BONNIE EARL OF MORAY
One room at Hurst Walwyn, though large, wainscoted, and well furnished,
bore as pertinaciously the air of a cell as the appearance of Sister
Cecily St. John continued like that of a nun. There was a large sunny
oriel, in which a thrush sang merrily in a wicker cage; and yet the very
central point and leading feature of the room was the altar-like table,
covered with rich needlework, with a carved ebony crucifix placed on it,
and on the wall above, quaint and stiff, but lovely-featured, delicately
tinted pictures of Our Lady in the centre, and of St. Anne and St.
Cecilia on either side, with skies behind of most ethereal blue, and
robes tenderly trimmed with gold. A little shrine of purple spar, with a
crystal front, contained a fragment of sacred bone; a silver shell help
holy water, perpetuated from some blessed by Bishop Ridley.
‘With velvet bound and broidered o’er,
Her breviary book’
Lay open at ‘Sext,’ and there, too, lay with its three marks at the
Daily Lessons, the Bishop’s Bible, and the Common Prayer beside it.
The elder Baron de Ribaumont had never pardoned Cecily his single glance
at that table, and had seriously remonstrated with his father-in-law
for permitting its existence, quoting Rachel, Achan, and Maachah. Yet
he never knew of the hair-cloth smock, the discipline, the cord and
sack-cloth that lay stored in the large carved awmry, and were secretly
in use on every fast or vigil, not with any notion of merit, but of
simple obedience, and with even deeper comprehension and enjoyment of
their spiritual significance, of which, in her cloister life, she had
comprehended little.
It was not she, however, who knelt with bowed head and clasped hands
before the altar-table, the winter sunbeams making the shadows of
the ivy sprays dance upon the deep mourning dress and pale cheek. The
eyelashes were heavy with tear-drops, and veiled eyes that had not yet
attained to the region of calm, like the light quivering of the lips
showed that here was the beginning of the course of trial through which
serenity might be won, and for ever.
By and by the latch was raise, and Cecily came forward. Lucy rose
quickly to her feet, and while giving and returning a fond embrace,
asked with her eyes the question that Cecily answered, ‘Still in the
same lethargy. The only shade of sense that I have seen is an unclosing
of the eyes, a wistful look whenever the door opened, and a shiver
through all his frame whenever the great bell rings, till my Lord
forbade it to be sounded.’
‘That frightful bell that the men told us of,’ said Lucy, shuddering;
‘oh, what a heart that murderess must have had!’
‘Hold, Lucy! How should we judge her, who may at this moment be weeping
in desolation?’
Lucy looked up astonished. ‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘you have been so long shut
up with him that you hardly can have heard all-how she played fast and
loose, and for the sake of a mere pageant put off the flight from the
time when it would have been secure even until that dreadful eve!’
‘I know it,’ said Cecily. ‘I fear me much that her sin has been great;
yet, Lucy, it were better to pray for her than to talk wildly against
her.’
‘Alas!’ murmured Lucy, ‘I could bear it and glory in it when it seemed
death for the faith’s sake, but,’ and the tears burst out, ‘to find he
was only trapped and slain for the sake of a faithless girl--and that he
should love her still.’
‘She is his wife,’ said Cecily. ‘Child, from my soul I grieve for you,
but none the less must I, if no other will, keep before your eyes that
our Berenger’s faith belongs solely to her.’
‘You--you never would have let me forget it,’ said Lucy. ‘Indeed I am
more maidenly when not alone with you! I know verily that he is loyal,
and that my hatred to her is more than is meet. I will--I will pray for
her, but I would that you were in your convent still, and that I could
hide me there.’
‘That were scarce enough,’ said Cecily. ‘One sister we had who had fled
to our house to hide her sorrows for her betrothed had wedded another.
She took her sorrows for her vocation, strove to hurry on her vows, and
when they were taken, she chafed and fretted under them. It was she who
wrote to the commissioner the letter that led to the visitation of our
house, and, moreover, she was the only one of us who married.’
‘To her own lover?’
‘No, to a brewer at Winchester! I say not that you could ever be like
poor sister Bridget, but only that the cloister has no charm to still
the heart--prayer and duty can do as much without as within.’
‘When we deemed her worthy, I was glad of his happiness,’ said Lucy,
thoughtfully.
‘You did, my dear, and I rejoiced. Think now how grievous it must be
with her, if she, as I fear she may, yielded her heart to those who
told her that to ensnare him was her duty, or if indeed she were as much
deceived as he.’
‘Then she will soon be comforted,’ said Lucy, still with some bitterness
in her voice; bitterness of which she herself was perhaps conscious, for
suddenly dropping in her knees, she hid her face, and cried. ‘Oh, help
me to pray for her, Aunt Cecily, and that I may do her wrong no more!’
And Cecily, in her low conventual chant, sang, almost under her breath,
the noonday Latin hymn, the words of which, long familiar to Lucy, had
never as yet so come home to her.
‘Quench Thou the fires of heat and strife,
The wasting fever of the heart;
From perils guard our feeble life,
And to our souls Thy help impart.’
Cecily’s judgment would have been thought weakly charitable by all
the rest of the family. Mr. Adderley had been forwarded by Sir Francis
Walsingham like a bale of goods, and arriving in a mood of such
self-reproach as would be deemed abject, by persons used to the modern
relations between noblemen and their chaplains, was exhilarated by the
unlooked-for comfort of finding his young charge at least living, and
in his grandfather’s house. From his narrative, Walsingham’s letter,
and Osbert’s account, Lord Walwyn saw no reason to doubt that the Black
Ribaumonts had thought that massacre a favourable moment for sweeping
the only survivor of the White or elder branch away, and that not only
had royalty lent itself to the cruel project, but that as Diane de
Ribaumont had failed as a bait, the young espoused wife had herself
been employed to draw him into the snare, and secure his presence at the
slaughter-house, away from his safe asylum at the Ambassador’s or even
in the King’s garde-robe. It was an unspeakably frightful view to take
of the case, yet scarcely worse than the reality of many of the dealings
of those with whom the poor young girl had been associated: certainly
not worse than the crimes, the suspicion of which was resting on
the last dowager Queen of France; and all that could be felt by the
sorrowing family, was comfort that at least corruption of mind had
either not been part of the game, or had been unsuccessful, and, by
all testimony, the victim was still the same innocent boy. This was all
their relief, while for days, for weeks, Berenger de Ribaumont lay in a
trance or torpor between life and death. Sometimes, as Cecily had said,
his eyes turned with a startled wistfulness towards the door, and the
sound of a bell seemed to thrill him with a start of agony; but for the
most part he neither appeared to see or hear, and a few moans were the
only sounds that escaped him. The Queen, in her affection for her old
friend, and her strong feeling for the victims of the massacre, sent
down the court physician, who turned him about, and elicited sundry
heavy groans, but could do no more than enjoin patient waiting on the
beneficent powers of nature in early youth. His visit produced one
benefit, namely, the strengthening of Cecily St. John’s hands against
the charms, elixirs, and nostrums with which Lady Thistlewood’s friends
supplied her,--plasters from the cunning women of Lyme Regis, made of
powder of giant’s bones, and snakes prayed into stone by St. Aldhelm,
pills of live woodlice, and fomentations of living earthworms and
spiders. Great was the censure incurred by Lady Walwyn for refusing to
let such remedies be tried on HER grandson. And he was so much more her
child than his mother’s, that Dame Annora durst do no more than maunder.
In this perfect rest, it seemed as if after a time ‘the powers of
nature’ did begin to rally, there were appearances of healing about the
wounds, the difference between sleeping and waking became more evident,
the eyes lost the painful, half-closed, vacant look, but were either
shut or opened with languid recognition. The injuries were such as to
exclude him from almost every means of expression, the wound in his
mouth made speech impossible, and his right arm was not available for
signs. It was only the clearness of his eyes, and their response to what
was said, that showed that his mind was recovering tone, and then he
seemed only alive to the present, and to perceive nothing but what
related to his suffering and its alleviations. The wistfulness that
had shown itself at first was gone, and even when he improved enough to
establish a language of signs with eye, lip, or left hand, Cecily became
convinced that he has little or no memory of recent occurrences, and
that finding himself at home among familiar faces, his still dormant
perceptions demanded no further explanation.
This blank was the most favourable state for his peace and for his
recovery, and it was of long duration, lasting even till he had made so
much progress that he could leave his bed, and even speak a few words,
though his weakness was much prolonged by the great difficulty with
which he could take nourishment. About two winters before, Cecily had
successfully nursed him through a severe attack of small-pox, and she
thought that he confounded his present state with the former illness,
when he had had nearly the same attendants and surroundings as at
present; and that his faculties were not yet roused enough to perceive
the incongruity.
Once or twice he showed surprise at visits from his mother or Philip,
who had then been entirely kept away from him, and about Christmas he
brightened so much, and awoke to things about him so much more fully,
that Cecily thought the time of recollection could not be much longer
deferred. Any noise, however, seemed so painful to him, that the
Christmas festivities were held at Combe Manor instead of Hurst Walwyn;
only after church, Sir Marmaduke and Lady Thistlewood came in to make
him a visit, as he sat in a large easy-chair by his bedroom-fire,
resting after having gone through as much of the rites of the day as he
was able for, with Mr. Adderlay. The room looked very cheerful with
the bright wood-fire on the open hearth, shining on the gay tapestry
hangings, and the dark wood of the carved bed. The evergreen-decked
window shimmered with sun shine, and even the patient, leaning back
among crimson cushions, though his face and head were ghastly enough
wherever they were not covered with patches and bandages, still had a
pleasant smile with lip and eye to thank his stepfather for his cheery
wishes of ‘a merry Christmas, at least one better in health.’
‘I did not bring the little wenches, Berenger, lest they should weary
you,’ said his mother.
Berenger looked alarmed, and said with the indistinctness with which he
always spoke, ‘Have they caught it? Are they marked?’
‘No, no, not like you, may boy,’ said Sir Marmaduke, sufficiently aware
of Berenger’s belief to be glad to keep it up, and yet obliged to walk
to the window to hide his diversion at the notion of his little girls
catching the contagion of sword-gashes and bullet-wounds. Dame Annora
prattled on, ‘But they have sent you their Christmas gifts by me. Poor
children, they have long been busied with them, and I fancy Lucy did
half herself. See, this kerchief is hemmed by little Dolly, and here
are a pair of bands and cuffs to match, that Nanny and Bessy have been
broidering with their choicest stitchery.’
Berenger smile, took, expressed admiration by gesture, and then said in
a dreamy, uncertain manner, ‘Methought I had some gifts for them;’ then
looking round the room, his eye fell on a small brass-bound casket which
had travelled with him to hold his valuables; he pointed to it with a
pleased look, as Sir Marmaduke lifted it and placed it on a chair by his
side. The key, a small ornamental brass one, was in his purse, not far
off, and Lady Thistlewood was full of exceeding satisfaction at the
unpacking not only of foreign gifts, but, as she hoped, of the pearls;
Cecily meantime stole quietly in, to watch that her patient was not
over-wearied.
He was resuming the use of his right arm, though it was still weak and
stiff, and he evidently had an instinct against letting any one deal
with that box but himself; he tried himself to unlock it, and though
forced to leave this to Sir Marmaduke, still leant over it when opened,
as if to prevent his mother’s curious glances from penetrating its
recesses, and allowed no hands near it but his own. He first brought out
a pretty feather fan, saying as he held it to his mother, ‘For Nan, I
promised it. It was bought at the Halles,’ he added, more dreamily.
Then again he dived, and brought out a wax medallion of Our Lady guarded
by angels, and made the sign that always brought Cecily to him. He
held it up to her with a puzzled smile, saying, ‘They thought me a mere
Papist for buying it--M. de Teligny, I think it was.’
They had heard how the good and beloved Teligny had been shot down on
the roof of his father-in-law’s house, by rabid assassins, strangers
to his person, when all who knew him had spared him, from love to his
gentle nature; and the name gave a strange thrill.
He muttered something about ‘Pedlar,--Montpipeau,’--and still continued.
Then came a small silver casket, diffusing an odour of attar of
roses--he leant back in his chair--and his mother would have taken it
from him, supposing him overcome by the scent, but he held it fast and
shook his head, saying, ‘For Lucy,--but she must give it herself. She
gave up any gift for herself for it--she said we needed no love-tokens.’
And he closed his eyes. Dame Annora plunged into the unpacking, and
brought out a pocket-mirror with enamelled cupids in the corner,
addressed to herself; and then came upon Berenger’s own.
Again came a fringed pair of gloves among the personal jewellery such
as gentlemen were wont to wear, the rings, clasps and brooches he had
carried from home. Dame Annora’s impatience at last found vent in the
exclamation, ‘The pearls, son; I do not see the chaplet of pearls.’
‘She had them, ‘answered Berenger, in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘to wear at
the masque.’
‘She----’
Sir Marmaduke’s great hand choked, as it were, the query on his wife’s
lips, unseen by her son, who, as if the words had touched some chord,
was more eagerly seeking in the box, and presently drew out a bow of
carnation ribbon with a small piece of paper full of pin-holes attached
to it. At once he carried it to his lips, kissed it fervently, and then,
sinking back in his chair, seemed to be trying to gather up the memory
that had prompted the impulse, knitted his brows together, and then
suddenly exclaimed, ‘Where is she?’
His mother tried the last antecedent. ‘Lucy? She shall come and thank
you to-morrow.’
He shook his head with a vehement negative, beckoned Cecily impatiently,
and said earnestly, ‘Is it the contagion? Is she sick? I will go to
her.’
Cecily and Sir Marmaduke both replied with a ‘No, no!’ and were
thankful, though in much suspense at the momentary pause, while again
he leant back on the cushions, looked steadily at the pin-holes, that
formed themselves into the word ‘Sweet heart,’ then suddenly began to
draw up the loose sleeve of his wrapping-gown and unbutton the wristband
of his right sleeve. His mother tried to help him, asking if he had hurt
or tired his arm. They would have been almost glad to hear that it was
so, but he shook her off impatiently, and the next moment had a view of
the freshly skinned over, but still wide and gaping gash on his arm. He
looked for a brief space, and said, ‘It is a sword-cut.’
‘Truly it is, lad,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘and a very bad one, happily
whole! Is this the first time you have seen it?’
He did not answer, but covered his eyes with his hand, and presently
burst out again, ‘Then it is no dream? Sir--have I been to France?’
‘Yes, my son, you have,’ said Sir Marmaduke, gently, and with more
tenderness than could have been looked for; ‘but what passed there is
much better viewed as a dream, and cast behind your back.’
Berenger had, while he spoke, taken up the same little mirror where he
had once admired himself; and as he beheld the scar and plaster that
disfigured his face, with a fresh start of recollection, muttered over,
‘_“Barbouiller ce chien de visage”_--ay, so he said. I felt the pistol’s
muzzle touch! Narcisse! Has God had mercy on me? I prayed Him. Ah! _“le
baiser d’Eustacie”_--so he said. I was waiting in the dark. Why did he
come instead of her? Oh! father, where is she?’
It was a sore task, but Sir Marmaduke went bravely and bluntly, though
far from unkindly, to the point: ‘She remains with her friends in
France.’
There the youth’s look of utter horror and misery shocked and startled
them all, and he groaned rather than said, ‘Left there! Left to them!
What have I done to leave her there?’
‘Come, Berenger, this will not serve,’ said his mother, trying to rouse
and cheer him. ‘You should rather be thankful that when you had been so
foully ensnared by their wiles, good Osbert brought you off with your
life away from those bloody doings. Yes, you may thank Heaven and
Osbert, for you are the only one of them living now.’
‘Of whom, mother?’
‘Of all the poor Protestants that like you were deluded by the pack of
murderers over there. What,’--fancying it would exhilarate him to hear
of his own escape--‘you knew not that the bloody Guise and the Paris
cut-throats rose and slew every Huguenot they could lay hands on? Why,
did not the false wench put off your foolish runaway project for the
very purpose of getting you into the trap on the night of the massacre?’
He looked with a piteous, appealing glance from her to Cecily and Sir
Marmaduke, as if in hopes that they would contradict.
‘Too true, my lad,’ said Sir Marmaduke. ‘It is Heaven’s good mercy that
Osbert carried you out alive. No other Protestant left the palace alive
but the King of Navarre and his cousin, who turned renegades.’
‘And she is left there?’ he repeated.
‘Heed her not, my dear boy,’ began his mother; ‘you are safe, and must
forget her ill-faith and----’
Berenger seemed scarcely to hear this speech--he held out his hands as
if stunned and dizzied, and only said, or rather indicated, ‘Let me lie
down.’
His stepfather almost carried him across the room, and laid him on his
bed, where he turned away from the light and shut his eyes; but the knot
of ribbon and the pin-pricked word was still in his hand, and his mother
longed to take away the token of this false love, as she believed it.
The great clock struck the hour for her to go. ‘Leave him quiet,’
said Cecily, gently; ‘he can bear no more now. I will send over in the
evening to let you know how he fares.’
‘But that he should be so set on the little bloodthirsty baggage,’
sighed Lady Thistlewood; and then going up to her son, she poured out
her explanation of being unable to stay, as her parents were already
at the Manor, with no better entertainers than Lucy, Philip, and the
children. She thanked him for the gifts, which she would take to them
with his love. All this passed by him as though he heard it not, but
when leaning down, she kissed his forehead, and at the same time tried
to withdraw the knot of ribbon: his fingers closed on it with a grasp
like steel, so cold were they, yet so fast.
Sir Masmaduke lingered a few moments behind her, and Berenger opening
his eyes, as if to see whether solitude had been achieved, found the
kind-hearted knight gazing at him with eyes full of tears. ‘Berry, my
lad,’ he said, ‘bear it like a man. I know how hard it is. There’s not
a woman of them all that an honest, plain Englishman has a chance with,
when a smooth-tongued Frenchman comes round her! But a man may live a
true and honest life however sore his heart may be, and God Almighty
makes it up to him if he faces it out manfully.’
Good Sir Marmaduke in his sympathy had utterly forgotten both Berenger’s
French blood, and that he was the son of the very smooth-tongued
interloper who had robbed his life of its first bloom. Berenger was
altogether unequal to do more than murmur, as he held out his hand in
response to the kindness, ‘You do not know her.’
‘Ah! Poor lad.’ Sir Marmaduke shook his head and left him to Cecily.
After the first shock, Berenger never rested till he had made Osbert,
Mr. Adderley, and Cecily tell him all they knew, and asked by name after
those whom he had known best at Paris. Alas! of all those, save such as
had been in the Ambassador’s house, there was but one account to give.
Venerable warrior, noble-hearted youth, devoted pastor, all alike had
perished!
This frightful part of the story was altogether new to him. He had been
probably the earliest victim in the Louvre, as being the special object
of private malice, which had contrived to involve him in the general
catastrophe; and his own recollections carried him only to the flitting
of lights and ringing of bells, that has made him imagine that an alarm
of fire would afford a good opportunity of escape if SHE would but come.
A cloaked figure had approached,--he had held out his arms--met that
deadly stroke--heard the words hissed in his ear.
He owned that for some time past strange recollections had been flitting
though his mind--a perpetual unsatisfied longing for and expectation of
his wife, and confused impressions of scenes and people had harassed him
perpetually, even when he could not discern between dreams and reality;
but knowing that he had been very ill, he had endeavoured to account for
everything as delirious fancies, but had become increasingly distressed
by their vividness, confusion, and want of outward confirmation. At
last these solid tokens and pledges from that time had brought certainty
back, and with it the harmony and clearness of his memory: and the
strong affection, that even his oblivion had not extinguished, now
recurred in all its warmth to its object.
Four months had passed, as he now discovered, since that night when he
had hoped to have met Euctacie, and she must be believing him dead. His
first measure on the following day when he had been dressed and seated
in his chair was to send for his casket, and with his slow stiff arm
write thus:--
‘Mon Coeur, My own sweetheart,--Hast thou thought me dead, and thyself
deserted? Osbert will tell thee all, and why I can scarce write. Trust
thyself to him to bring to me. I shall be whole seeing thee. Or if thou
canst not come with him, write or send me the least token by him, and I
will come and bear thee home so soon as I can put foot in stirrup. Would
that I could write all that is in my heart!
‘Thy Husband.’
It was all that either head or hand would enable him to say, but he
had the fullest confidence in Landry Osbert, who was one of the few who
understood him at half a word. He desired Osbert to seek the lady out
wherever she might be, whether still at court or in a convent, convey
the letter to her if possible, and, if she could by any means escape,
obtain from Chateau Leurre such an escort as she could come to England
with. If, as was too much to be feared, she was under too close
restraint, Osbert should send intelligence home, as he could readily do
through the Ambassador’s household, and Berenger trusted by that time to
be able to take measures for claiming her in person.
Osbert readily undertook everything, but supplies for his journey were
needed, and there was an absolute commotion in the house when it was
known that Berenger had been writing to his faithless spouse, and
wishing to send for her. Lord Walwyn came up to visit his grandson, and
explain to him with much pity and consideration that he considered such
a step as vain, and only likely to lead to further insult. Berenger’s
respect forced him to listen without interruption, and though he panted
to answer, it was a matter of much difficulty, for the old lord was
becoming deaf, and could not catch the indistinct, agitated words--
‘My Lord, she is innocent as day.’
‘Ah! Anan, boy.’
‘I pledge my life on her love and innocence.’
‘Love! Yes, my poor boy; but if she be unworthy?--Eh? Cecily, what says
he?’
‘He is sure of her innocence, sir?’
‘That is of course. But, my dear lad, you will soon learn that even a
gentle, good woman who has a conscience-keeper is too apt to think
her very sense of right ought to be sacrificed to what she calls her
religion.--What is it, what is he telling you, Cecily?’
‘She was ready to be one of us,’ Berenger said, with a great effort to
make it clear.
‘Ah, a further snare. Poor child! The very softest of them become the
worst deceivers, and the kindred who have had the charge of her all
their life could no doubt bend her will.’
‘Sir,’ said Berenger, finding argument impossible, ‘if you will but let
me dispatch Osbert, her answer will prove to you what she is.’
‘There is something in that,’ said Lord Walwyn, when he had heard it
repeated by Cecily. ‘It is, of course, needful that both she and her
relations should be aware of Berenger’s life, and I trow nothing but the
reply will convince him.’
‘Convince him!’ muttered Berenger. ‘Oh that I could make him understand.
What a wretch I am to have no voice to defend her!’
‘What?’ said the old lord again.
‘Only that I could speak, sir; you should know why it is sacrilege to
doubt her.’
‘Ah! well, we will not wound you, my son, while talk is vain. You shall
have the means of sending your groom, if thus you will set your mind at
rest, though I had rather have trusted to Walsingham’s dealing. I will
myself give him a letter to Sir Francis, to forward him on his way; and
should the young lady prove willing to hold to her contract and come
to you here, I will pray him to do everything to aid her that may be
consistent with his duty in his post.’
This was a great and wonderful concession for Lord Walwyn, and Berenger
was forced to be contented with it, though it galled him terribly to
have Eustacie distrusted, and be unable to make his vindication even
heard or understood, as well as to be forced to leave her rescue, and
even his own explanation to her, to a mere servant.
This revival of his memory had not at all conduced to his progress in
recovery. His brain was in no state for excitement or agitation, and
pain and confusion were the consequence, and were counteracted, after
the practice of the time, by profuse bleedings, which prolonged his
weakness. The splintered state of the jaw and roof of the moth likewise
produced effects that made him suffer severely, and deprived him at
times even of the small power of speech that he usually possessed; and
though he had set his heart upon being able to start for Paris so soon
as Osbert’s answer should arrive, each little imprudence he committed,
in order to convince himself of his progress, threw him back so
seriously, that he was barely able to walk down-stairs to the hall, and
sit watching--watching, so that it was piteous to see him--the gates
of the courtyard, but the time that, on a cold March day, a booted and
spurred courier (not Osbert) entered by them.
He sprang up, and faster than he had yet attempted to move, met the man
in the hall, and demanded the packet. It was a large one, done up
in canvas, and addressed to the Right Honourable and Worshipful Sir
William, Baron Walwyn of Hurst Walwyn, and he had further to endure the
delay of carrying it to his grandfather’s library, which he entered with
far less delay and ceremony than was his wont. ‘Sit down, Berenger,’
said the old man, while addressing himself to the fastenings; and the
permission was needed, for he could hardly have stood another minute.
The covering contained a letter to Lord Walwyn himself, and a packet
addressed to the Baron de Ribaumont which his trembling fingers could
scarcely succeed in cutting and tearing open.
How shall it be told what the contents of the packet were? Lord Walwyn
reading on with much concern, but little surprise, was nevertheless
startled by the fierce shout with which Berenger broke out:
‘A lie! A lie forged in hell!’ And then seizing the parchment, was about
to rend it with all the force of passion, when his grandfather, seizing
his hand, said, in his calm, authoritative voice, ‘Patience, my poor
son.’
‘How, how should I have patience when they send me such poisoned lies as
these of my wife, and she is in the power of the villains? Grandfather,
I must go instantly---’
‘Let me know what you have heard,’ said Lord Walwyn, holding him feebly
indeed, but with all the impressive power and gravity of his years.
‘Falsehoods,’ said Berenger, pushing the whole mass of papers over to
him, and then hiding his head between his arms on the table.
Lord Walwyn finished his own letter first. Walsingham wrote with
much kind compassion, but quite decisively. He had no doubt that the
Ribaumont family had acted as one wheel in the great plot that had
destroyed all the heads of Protestant families and swept away among
others, as they had hoped, the only scion of the rival house. The old
Chevalier de Ribaumont had, he said, begun by expressing sorrow for
the mischance that had exposed his brave young cousin to be lost in the
general catastrophe, and he had professed proportionate satisfaction on
hearing of the young man’s safety. But the Ambassador believed him to
have been privy to his son’s designs; and whether Mdlle. de Nid de Merle
herself had been a willing agent or not, she certainly had remained
in the hands of the family. The decree annulling the marriage had been
published, the lady was in a convent in Anjou, and Narcisse de Ribaumont
had just been permitted to assume the title of Marquis de Nid de Merle,
and was gone into Anjou to espouse her. Sir Francis added a message of
commiseration for the young Baron, but could not help congratulating his
old friend on having his grandson safe and free from these inconvenient
ties.
Berenger’s own packet contained, in the first place, a copy of the
cassation of the marriage, on the ground of its having been contracted
when the parties were of too tender age to give their legal consent, and
its having been unsatisfied since they had reached ecclesiastical years
for lawful contraction of wedlock.
The second was one of the old Chevalier’s polite productions. He was
perfectly able to ignore Berenger’s revocation of his application for
the separation, since the first letter had remained unanswered, and the
King’s peremptory commands had prevented Berenger from taking any open
measures after his return from Montpipeau. Thus the old gentleman, after
expressing due rejoicing at his dear young cousin’s recovery, and regret
at the unfortunate mischance that had led to his confounded with the
many suspected Huguenots, proceeded as if matters stood exactly as
they had been before the pall-mall party, and as if the decree that he
enclosed were obtained in accordance with the young Baron’s intentions.
He had caused it to be duly registered, and both parties were at liberty
to enter upon other contracts of matrimony. The further arrangements
which Berenger had undertaken to sell his lands in Normandy, and his
claim on the ancestral castle in Picardy, should be carried out, and
deeds sent for his signature so soon as he should be of age. In the
meantime, the Chevalier courteously imparted to his fair cousin the
marriage of his daughter, Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont with M. le
Comte de Selinville, which had taken place on the last St. Martin’s day,
and of his niece, Mademoiselle Eustacie de Ribaumont de Nid de Merle
with his son, who had received permission to take her father’s title
of Marquis de Nid de Merle. The wedding was to take place at Bellaise
before the end of the Cardinal, and would be concluded before this
letter came to hand.
Lastly, there was an ill written and spelt letter, running somewhat
thus--
‘Monseigneur,--Your faithful servant hopes that Monsieur le Baron will
forgive him for not returning, since I have been assured by good priests
that it is not possible to save my soul in a country of heretics. I have
done everything as Monsieur commanded, I have gone down into Anjou,
and have had the honour to see the young lady to whom Monsieur le
Baron charged me with a commission, and I delivered to her his letter,
whereupon the lady replied that she thanked M. le Baron for the honour
he had done her, but that being on the point of marriage to M. le
Marquis de Nid de Merle, she did not deem it fitting to write to him,
nor had she any tokens to send him, save what he had received on the
St. Barthelemy midnight; they might further his suit elsewhere. These,
Monsieur, were her words, and she laughed as she said them, so gaily
that I thought her fairer than ever. I have prevailed with her to take
me into her service as intendant of the Chateau de Nid de Merle, knowing
as she does my fidelity to the name of Ribaumont. And so, trusting
Monseigneur will pardon me for what I do solely for the good of my soul,
I will ever pray for his welfare, and remain,
‘His faithful menial and valet,
‘LANDRY OSBERT.’
The result was only what Lord Walwyn had anticipated, but he was
nevertheless shocked at the crushing weight of the blow. His heart was
full of compassion for the youth so cruelly treated in these his first
years of life, and as much torn in his affections as mangled in person.
After a pause, while he gathered up the sense of the letters, he laid
his hand kindly on his grandson’s arm, and said, ‘This is a woeful
budget, my poor son; we will do our best to help you to bear it.’
‘The only way to bear it,’ said Berenger, lifting up his face, ‘is
for me to take horse and make for Anjou instantly. She will hold out
bravely, and I may yet save her.’
‘Madness,’ said his grandfather; ‘you have then not read your fellow’s
letter?’
‘I read no letter from fellow of mine. Yonder is a vile forgery.
Narcisse’s own, most likely. No one else would have so profaned her as
to put such words into her mouth! My dear faithful foster-brother--have
they murdered him?’
‘Can you point to any proof that it is forged?’ said Lord Walwyn, aware
that handwriting was too difficult an art, and far too crabbed,
among persons of Osbert’s class, for there to be any individuality of
penmanship.
‘It is all forged,’ said Berenger. ‘It is as false that she could frame
such a message as that poor Osbert would leave me.’
‘These priests have much power over the conscience,’ began Lord Walwyn;
but Berenger, interrupting his grandfather for the first time in his
life, cried, ‘No priest could change her whole nature. Oh! my wife! my
darling! what may they not be inflicting on her now! Sir, I must go. She
may be saved! The deadly sin may be prevented!’
‘This is mere raving, Berenger,’ said Lord Walwyn, not catching half
what he said, and understanding little more than his resolution to
hasten in quest of the lady. ‘You, who have not mounted a horse, nor
walked across the pleasance yet!’
‘My limbs should serve me to rescue her, or they are worth nothing to
me.’
Lord Walwyn would have argued that he need not regret his incapacity
to move, since it was no doubt already too late, but Berenger burst
forth--‘She will resist; she will resist to the utmost, even if she
deems me dead. Tortures will not shake her when she knows I live. I must
prepare.’ And he started to his feet.
‘Grandson,’ said Lord Walwyn, laying a hand on his arm, ‘listen to me.
You are in not state to judge for yourself. I therefore command you to
desist from this mad purpose.’
He spoke gravely, but Berenger was disobedient for the first time. ‘My
Lord,’ he said, ‘you are but my grandfather. She is my wife. My duty is
to her.’
He had plucked his sleeve away and was gone, before Lord Walwyn had been
able to reason with him that there was no wife in the case, a conclusion
at which the old statesman would not have arrived had he known of the
ceremony at Montpipeau, and all that had there passed; but not only
did Berenger deem himself bound to respect the King’s secret, but
conversation was so difficult to him that he had told very little of his
adventures, and less to Lord Walwyn than any one else. In effect,
his grandfather considered this resolution of going to France as mere
frenzy, and so it almost was, not only on the score of health
and danger, but because as a ward, he was still so entirely under
subjection, that his journey could have been hindered by absolutely
forcible detention; and to this Lord Walwyn intended to resort, unless
the poor youth either came to a more rational mind, or became absolutely
unable to travel.
The last--as he had apprehended--came to pass only too surely. The very
attempt to argue and to defend Eustacie was too much for the injured
head; and long before night Berenger full believed himself on
the journey, acted over its incidents, and struggled wildly with
difficulties, all the time lying on his bed, with the old servants
holding him down, and Cecily listening tearfully to his ravings.
For weeks longer he was to lie there in greater danger than ever. He
only seemed soothed into quiet when Cecily chanted those old Latin hymns
of her Benedictine rule, and then--when he could speak at all--he showed
himself to be in imagination praying in Eustacie’s convent chapel, sure
to speak to her when the service should be over.