"It was discreet, my lord, it was discreet," said Lord Calverly, as he
walked up into the hall with Fulmer by his side; "and take my word for
it, that discretion is a quality which every man should prize in a
wife. She meant you no offence, depend upon it, but with maidenly
modesty retired till she had the sanction of her guardian's presence."
"I made no complaint, my dear lord," replied Fulmer, for the first
time aware that, in telling how soon Iola had left him, his tone had
displayed some mortification; "I merely said that, after a moment's
interview, the dear girl withdrew; and you may easily imagine that I
should have better liked her stay."
"Nay, nay, not so," answered the old peer. "That is a boyish fancy. We
should always prefer lengthened happiness to present pleasure. Now her
retiring was a sign of that frame of mind which will be your best
happiness hereafter, therefore you should have been well pleased."
Fulmer set his teeth tight together, bearing the lecture with
impatience, to which he did not choose to give utterance; but the next
moment the old lord continued, saying--
"Thanks for your diligence, my dear lord. I see the people are all in
a bustle of preparation. My noble friend Lord Chartley will be here
anon; for, good sooth, it gave me some trouble to outride him; and I
would not have him find anything in disarray; for his own household, I
am told, is the best ordered in England."
The words galled their auditor. He asked himself why it should be so;
and he had nothing to reply; for the movements of the human heart,
deep, subtle, and intricate, conceal themselves constantly more or
less, not only from the eyes of the outward world, but from the sight
of the mind, which is affected by their impulses. As the ship leaves
no permanent trace in the ever closing waters, as the arrow marks not
its path through the sky, so do feelings often pass through the human
heart, leaving no trace of the way by which they came and went.
Fulmer could not prevent a frown from gathering on his brow; but,
though marked by Sir Edward Hungerford, it passed unnoticed by old
Lord Calverly, whose coming somewhat earlier than had been expected
set the whole household of the castle in movement. Orders had to be
given; rooms to be assigned; new preparations to be ordered; old
preparations to be undone; servants, attendants, guests hurried here
and there; and a great deal of bustle, and not a little confusion,
prevailed, when, at length, Iola and Constance appeared in answer
to a summons from their uncle. The former was still very pale; and
the keen and marking eye of Fulmer detected--or he fancied that he
detected--the trace of tears upon her beautiful cheek.
All passed unnoticed by her self-occupied uncle. He had not seen her
for nearly two years, and he did not remark any change in her
appearance. She might have been pale before, for aught he knew; and
besides he was too busy to take any note of such trifling things as
paleness or tears. He saluted both his nieces, and welcomed them to
Chidlow in fewer words than was his wont; asked why their aunt, the
abbess, had not come with them at his summons; but waited for no
answer; and, committing them to the care of Lord Fulmer and Sir Edward
Hungerford, with some gentlemen, of inferior fortune and station who
had accompanied him from Leicester, he proceeded to reiterate orders
given twice before, and confuse his servants with manifold directions,
often somewhat contradictory.
Left in the hall with her cousin, and her uncle's guests, Iola felt
some relief in the numbers who were present. Fulmer would fain have
enacted the lover's part; nor was he indeed at all unfitted to do so;
for his heart was naturally warm and impetuous, and Iola's beauty and
grace might well have kindled the flame of love in a colder breast
than his own. Strange human nature, too, would have it, that the
doubts and apprehensions which had arisen in his mind should render
him only the mere eager to overcome anything like coldness upon her
part; and he strove, with soft speeches and low-toned words, to win
her ear to himself alone.
The result was not favourable. Iola listened calmly, coldly, and ever
replied aloud, in words which all the world might hear. She did so,
not upon any plan or system indeed, but from the feelings which were
busy in her own heart, and the impressions which his words produced.
She was contrasting them all the time with those of Chartley; and to
her mind, at least, the comparison was unfavourable. The frank gay
manner, the lively half-careless answer, the want of all study and
formality, the shining forth of a heart that, like a gay bird, seemed
made captive in spite of itself, which had all pleased, excited, won
her in Chartley, was not to be found in the conversation or demeanour
of Lord Fulmer. Between her and him there were but few subjects in
common; the only one, indeed, being that from which she shrunk away
with apprehension. He could but have recourse to the common places of
love and admiration; and they were not at all fitted to win her. It
was his misfortune indeed, and not his fault; but yet we often
aggravate our misfortunes by our faults; and so it was in some degree
with Fulmer. He had dreamed bright dreams of their meeting; and,
little knowing woman's heart, he had fancied that she would do the
same, that she would look forward with the same hopes to their union,
that her heart unwooed would spring to meet his; and he was
disappointed, mortified, somewhat irritated, to find that it was not
so.
Worse, in the end he showed such feelings in his manner, and by an
impatient look and tone, caused Iola to shrink from him still more
coldly.
It was just at that moment that old Lord Calverly returned, saying
aloud--
"Our other guests are coming. They are just at the castle gates. Now,
Constance," he continued, for his lordship would sometimes venture an
insipid joke, "now, Constance, if you would win a rich and noble
husband, put on your brightest smiles."
"Who may he be, my lord?" asked Constance, who as well as Iola was
ignorant of the names of the persons expected.
"Nay, nay, you will see," said Lord Calverly. "Did not his young
lordship tell you?"
"No, indeed!" answered Constance quietly; "but I can wait in patience,
my good lord. Time brings all things to light."
Through the open windows came the clattering sound of horses' feet
from the courtyard, and then of orders given and voices speaking.
There is something very strange in our memory of sounds. How long, how
clearly we remember, how definitely we can trace back those intangible
footprints of things that we have loved or dreaded, on the pathway of
the air. A tone which has once awakened strong emotions is never
forgotten. Iola's heart thrilled as she heard those sounds from the
court.
There was then a pause of a minute or two, during which no one spoke.
Then came steps upon the short wide staircase; and then the door
opened. Fulmer fixed his eyes upon Iola's face; but she remarked not
that he did so; for her own look was bent forward upon the door. He
saw a clear light rise up in her eyes, a soft warm glow spread itself
over her cheek and forehead, a bright but very transient smile,
extinguished as soon as lighted, beam upon her beautiful lips. The
next instant she was calm and pale again; and, turning his head, he
saw Chartley approaching.
The wound was given. His doubts, his apprehensions, his suspicions
were confirmed. Yet there was nothing tangible; nothing that could
justify him in saying a word, or acting in any way except as before.
But that was the greater torture; and now he resolved to watch for
some occasion to speak or do. In the mean time Chartley advanced
rapidly, followed by good Sir William Arden. He was somewhat changed
since Iola had seen him. He looked graver, sterner. His cheek had
grown pale too. There were care and thought written on his brow.
"He has suffered also," thought Iola; and her heart sunk more than
ever.
"Oh, would that I had told him all at once!" she said in her own
heart. "Yet how could I do it? Alas, that I should make him unhappy
too."
Chartley's manner however showed no agitation. He had been prepared by
his conversation with Lord Calverly to meet those whom he found there;
and, at once addressing the old nobleman, he said:
"I here redeem my parole, my good lord, and surrender myself to your
ward, according to the king's will, and to my word given this morning
when you left me."
Then turning to Iola, he took her hand with a frank but grave air, and
bent his head over it, saying, "dear lady, I rejoice to see you once
again, and trust that you have been well since the evening when we
met."
With a degree of haste, which was the only sign of emotion he showed,
he next saluted Constance, almost in the same words; but then, with a
kindly and sincere tone, inquired after her aunt, the abbess, trusting
that she had not suffered from the alarm and anxiety she must have
felt on the night when he last saw her. He listened too attentively to
Constance's reply; but he could not prevent his eyes from wandering
for a moment back to the face of Iola; and then, with a sort of start,
he turned away, looking round the circle, and exclaimed, "oh,
Hungerford, I did not expect to meet you here. When you left me at
Leicester, I thought you were bound for London, and believed you, even
now, plunged in a sea of green Genoa velvet."
"Nay, you forget," replied Sir Edward Hungerford; "summer is coming
on. No one could venture to wear velvet for the next eight months,
except a lord mayor or an alderman."
"Faith, I know not much of such matters," answered Chartley; "but that
is the most reasonable piece of tailorism I have heard, which gives us
warm clothing for our winter wear and lighter garments for our summer
use. However I thought you were in London."
"So had I been," answered the young knight; "but I was stopped by a
delicate epistle from my friend Lord Fulmer, here, containing an
invitation not to be refused."
"Let me make you acquainted, any good lords," said Lord Calverly,
advancing between the two young noblemen, and presenting them to each
other. Each bowed with a stiff and stately air; and Chartley paused
for a moment, as if to see whether Fulmer would speak or not; but,
finding him silent, he turned on his heel; and, seeing Sir William
Arden talking bluffly to Iola, he took his place by the side of
Constance, and once more spoke of the night of their meeting.
The entrance of the young nobleman and those who accompanied him had
caused one of those pauses which are very common in--I might say
peculiar to--English society. Amongst foreigners in general, a
stranger can enter, glide in amongst the other guests, speak with
those he knows, pass those who are strangers, and be introduced to
this person or to that, without interrupting the occupations or
amusements going on. If his rank be very high, or his character very
distinguished, a slight murmur, a hardly perceptible movement, and a
few seconds of observation, form all that is produced by his
appearance; but here such is not the case; and, unless the
conversation going forward be very entertaining indeed, or the
amusement in progress very exciting, a long silence follows the
introduction of any personage worthy of note, during which he is well
aware that every body is observing and commenting upon him. Such had
been in a great degree the case in the present instance. For the first
five minutes, nobody had spoken but Chartley, Iola, Constance, their
uncle, and Sir Edward Hungerford. But, at the end of that time, each
of the many guests resumed his conversation with his neighbour; and
Chartley had a better opportunity of saying a few words, which he did
not wish heard, to Constance, while the busy buzz of tongues prevailed
around.
"I am happy, dear lady," he said, as soon as he had made sure of the
moment, "to see you looking so well. I wish I could say the same of
your sweet cousin. She looks pale, anxious, and thoughtful."
He paused as if for an answer, but Constance merely replied, "she does
not look well indeed."
"I fear," continued Chartley, "that terrible night she passed in the
forest, with all the alarm that she must have felt, was too much for
her fair and delicate frame. I did my best, believe me, to comfort and
protect her; but my best was but little, and she must have suffered
much."
"I do not think that had any effect," replied Constance. "Her health
has ever been strong and unimpaired--" she stopped for an instant,
fearful of being led on to say more than she intended, and then added;
"but she certainly looks ill. She speaks, however, my lord, with great
gratitude of the kindness which you showed her, on that terrible
night, which I shall never think of without dread."
"Gratitude!" said Chartley, with a smile. "Kindness! Dear lady, she
must have formed a very unfavourable opinion of mankind, if she
thought there was any gentleman who would not do the same."
"But it may be done in very different ways, my noble lord," answered
Constance; "and she assured me that you treated her as if you had been
a brother."
Chartley murmured to himself in a low tone, "Would that I could have
felt as one!" The sounds were hardly articulate; but they caught the
ear of his companion, and the whole secret was revealed at once. She
cast down her eyes in painful thought, from which she was roused the
moment after by Chartley saying, almost in a whisper,
"Will you give her a message for me, dear lady? for I may never have
the opportunity of saying what I wish myself."
"What is it, my lord?" demanded Constance, timidly, with a glow of
agitation coming into her cheek.
"It is merely this," replied the young nobleman. "Tell her, that he
for whom she risked so much--I mean the bishop of Ely--is safe in
France. I have received intimation of the fact from a sure hand. Tell
her so, and add that, if the deepest gratitude and the sincerest
regard can compensate for what she underwent that night, she has
them."
"I will," replied Constance. "I will repeat your words exactly. There
can be no harm in that."
She laid some emphasis on the last words; and Chartley gazed in her
face as if to learn the interpretation thereof, "There can, indeed, be
no harm in that," he rejoined: "nor in telling her any thought of my
mind towards her."
Constance was about to reply; but, looking up, she saw the eyes of her
uncle fixed upon her, with a meaning smile upon his lip, as if he
thought she had already made a conquest of Lord Chartley. The
conversation between them then paused; and Lord Calverly, crossing to
where they stood, proposed to lead the young nobleman, who was partly
his guest, partly his prisoner, to the lodging which had been prepared
for him, his friend Sir William Arden, and their attendants. Chartley
followed in silence, and found everything done that it was possible to
do to render his residence at Chidlow pleasant.
The old lord was all courtesy and kindness. In his usual pompous tone,
he excused what he called the poverty of the furniture, though it was
in reality of a very splendid description. He declared the bed was not
half large enough, though it would have afforded room to turn in, to
at least six well-grown persons. The plumes of feathers too, at the
top of the posts, he declared were in a bad fashion, as well as the
hangings of the bed, and the tapestry of the bedroom somewhat faded.
The antechamber and the chamber adjoining were well enough, though
somewhat confined, he said; but he excused their narrowness, on
account of that part of the building being the most ancient of all,
the tower having been built by William the Bastard.
"Our Norman ancestors," he said, "thought more of defence than
convenience; but we have larger apartments in the main building, where
Lord Chartley will always be received as an honoured guest. And now,
my dear young lord," he continued, "though I grieve in some sort to be
made, as it were, your jailer, yet in some sort I rejoice; for I can
lighten your captivity, or, to call it by a better name, your
wardship. I would fain have it as mild as may be, and, though I am
responsible to the king for your person, yet I would only secure you
by bolts and bars of words, and fetters of air. Give me your promise,
as knight and nobleman, as you did this morning, that you will make no
attempt to escape, and then roam whithersoever you will. I will set no
spies upon you. You have then only to fancy yourself a guest in my
poor mansion, and all the pangs of imprisonment are gone."
"A thousand thanks, my noble friend," replied Chartley. "My promise I
freely give; but it were better for both you and me that your
forbearance and my engagement should have a limit. Let it be from
month to month. Thus, the first of every month I present myself as
your prisoner, and then you can renew your kind permission if you
please, or not."
"Agreed, agreed," cried Lord Calverly. "It is a marvellous good
arrangement. The rooms of your friend, Sir William Arden, an
exceedingly good and valiant knight, though somewhat more familiar
with the battle field than with bower or hall, are immediately above
you; the rooms of your own attendants below. The truckle beds in the
antechamber are somewhat small, but will serve two of the knaves well
enough. And now I leave you, with a warning that our repast will be
upon the board within the hour.--Ha, here comes Sir William Arden
across the court, conducted by my cousin John. I will tell him of our
supper hour as we pass; but he does not spend much time on his
apparel, I should think."
"Good faith, he is well apparelled in his own high qualities," replied
Chartley, "however he be dressed. The wool of a sheep and the entrails
of a silkworm make but a poor addition in my eyes to a man's own
worth--but," he added, not willing that his bluff friend should be
undervalued, even by one who esteemed wealth as a high quality, "the
plainness of Arden's apparel is from choice and not necessity.
Doubtless, you know, my lord, that in worldly wealth he is as well
furnished as in qualities of heart."
"Nay, nay, I did not know it," said Lord Calverly, with a look of much
interest. "I thought he was but one of the knights of your household."
"My mother's first cousin," replied Chartley, "which is the cause of
his attachment to myself."
"Nay, nay, your own high merits," said Lord Calverly, with a sliding
bow, and took his leave.
In a few minutes more, Sir William Arden entered Chartley's room, with
a gay air.
"Well, boy," he exclaimed, "here you are a prisoner. Think yourself
happy that you have not been gored by the boar's tusks. Good faith, he
wounds deep where he strikes. That old fool, our host, has stopped me
for five minutes in the court, with a panegyric on your merits, and
looked much surprized when I told him the plain truth, to wit, that
you are a foolish mad-headed boy, who will need fifty such hard
lessons as you have received, before you get some grains of common
sense beaten into you."
Arden threw himself on a seat in the window, as he spoke, and gazed
out, little attending to Chartley's answer, which consisted but of
some words of course. He remained silent, even for a minute or two
after; but then, turning sharply round, he said--
"Tell me, Chartley, what has happened to that sweet girl, Iola? She
that was bright is dull; she, who was gay, is sad; she, whose cheek
was like the rose, is now like a lily bending amongst its green
leaves, bowed down with drops of dew."
"Nay, I know not," answered Chartley, leaning his head upon his hand,
and bending his eyes upon the table.
"Then, what's the matter with you, my lord?" rejoined Sir William
Arden; "for yours is the same case as hers. You are sad where you were
gay; you are stupid where you were sharp; you look like a pipped hen
instead of a rosy bumpkin."
"Methinks my present situation were enough to account for all this,"
replied Chartley.
"Come, come. That will not do, my lord," answered his friend. "I have
seen you in much worse plight, when we were taken by the brown fellows
at Tripoli, and you were then as gay as a lark. Better you should have
some one to consult with. Tell me in a word, then. Were you making
love to this dear little lady, when you were out with her the whole
night in the forest? It was a great temptation, truly. I was half
inclined at supper to make an old fool of myself, and say sweet things
to pretty Constance, just to console her for the empty babbling of Ned
Hungerford."
Chartley still leaned his arm upon the table, and remained in thought.
It was not a usual mood with him; for, generally, the first emotions
of his heart soonest found utterance; but new passions will produce
new conduct. For the first time in his life, he felt inclined to be
angry at his acts being inquired into, even by a friend, for the
purposes of friendship. But he felt that it was foolish and wrong;
and, being a very imperfect creature, after a brief struggle, he went
into quite the opposite extreme.
"You are too sharp a questioner, Arden," he said, with a laugh, which
had somewhat of his old gaiety in it; "but I'll answer your question
manfully. I do not think the name of love ever passed my lips during
that whole night."
"Ay, ay," cried the bluff knight; "but talking of love is not making
it."
"Perhaps not," answered Chartley; "but, if I did make it, it was
without intention. One thing, however, I feel too well, that, if I did
not make love, I learned to love; and that is much worse. But it were
worse still, Arden, should I have taught her to love too."
"Why so?" asked Sir William Arden, with a start.
"And yet I cannot think it," said Chartley, pursuing his own course of
thought. "No, no, God forbid! This paleness, this sadness, may have a
thousand other causes."
"But how now? What's the matter?" asked Arden, again. "Why should you
wish yourself unloved? Remember, young man, when once put on, you
cannot strip off love like a soiled jerkin. The honest man and true
seeks no love that he cannot wear for ever--at least, till the garment
drops off of itself."
"You do not know. You do not understand," said Chartley, impatiently.
"The lady is contracted, I tell you, to this Lord Fulmer--ay,
contracted in infancy, by every tie but the mere last ceremony of the
church."
"And did she not tell you?" demanded Arden. "That was wrong, very
wrong."
"'Tis you who are wrong," replied Chartley. "Why should she tell me?
How should she tell me, when I never spoke to her of love? What my
manner said, I know not; but there was not one word uttered by me
which could give her a plea for relating to me all her private
history. I thought I should have plenty of opportunity of speaking
boldly, at an after time; and, alarmed and agitated as she was, I
would not for the world have said or done aught that could add to what
she felt. Since then, I have learned that she was contracted, when a
child, to this Lord Fulmer; but that, educated as he has been at the
court of Burgundy, they have never met from infancy till now."
"Damnation!" cried Sir William Arden, striding up and down the room.
"This is the most unpleasant thing I ever had to deal with! And you
forced to live in the same house with him too. In fortune's name, what
will you do, my dear boy?"
"As best I may," answered Chartley. "Perhaps 'twere as well, Arden, to
resume the appearance, at least, of all my old light spirits. At the
worst, she will then but tax me with levity; and, if the feelings she
has taught me have been at all learned by herself, she will soon be
brought to believe that I am unworthy, because careless, of her
affections, and feel the less regret at the sacrifice she must make."
"Don't resume, or assume anything, my dear lord," answered Sir William
Arden. "Be what you are, seem what you are at all times. Confound me
all men that walk in vizards! The best result always comes of the most
straightforward course. But I will go and change these travel-soiled
garments, and think of it all while I am getting the dust out of my
eyes.--By the Lord that lives," he continued, looking out at the
window, "there comes the abbess of St. Clare into the court, with
Heaven knows how many more people. The castle will be too full, and I
shall have to share my room with her. Well, thank Heaven for all
things. She is a merry little fat soul, and will help us to laugh care
away."
Thus saying, he turned and left his friend, who was not ill-satisfied,
on the whole, at having been forced into making a confidant of one, on
whose honour, integrity, and good sense he could firmly rely.