The hall was as light as day; for Lord Calverly was fond of a glare.
The feast was as delicate as he could have desired, and even the
critical taste of Sir Edward Hungerford found nothing to criticise.
The arrangement of the guests, however, was not altogether that which
best suited their several inclinations. There were many, with whom we
have little or nothing to do, who might, or might not, be placed as
they would have placed themselves; but, certainly, with regard to Iola
and Chartley, such was not the case; for she was seated between her
uncle and Lord Fulmer, while Chartley was at some distance from her,
on the opposite side of the table. Let the mind say what it would, the
heart told her she would rather have had him near. Her ear thirsted
for the tones of his voice, and her eye wandered for a moment, from
time to time, to his face, with a glance withdrawn as soon as given,
but with an impulse she could not controul. She was very young, and
very inexperienced, and some excuse must be made for her. She wished
to do all that was right, to avoid all that was wrong; but the heart
was rebellious, and would have its own way.
Constance, too, could have wished something changed in her position.
Sir William Arden, it is true, had contrived to place himself on her
left; and with that part of the arrangement she was very well
satisfied; but Sir Edward Hungerford occupied the other side, and
there was hardly any one in all the hall whom she would not have
preferred.
"Be merry, be merry, my friends," said excellent Lord Calverly, who
perceived that, for some reason or another, his guests were not as
cheerful as they might have been. "Let us all be gay; for in these
troublous times, when one sits down to the merry evening meal, with
friendly faces round us, it is never possible to tell when we shall
all meet again."
"By St. Paul, that's a topic well calculated to promote hilarity!"
said Sir William Arden in a low voice to Constance; "and, to say
truth, dear lady, the castle hall does not seem to me so gay a place
as the abbey refectory."
"I begin to think," said Constance, "that the calm shade of the
cloister may, upon the whole, contain more cheerfulness than the
laughter-loving world."
"Pooh! We must not let you think so," said Sir William Arden. "Cannot
Sir Edward Hungerford persuade you of the contrary? He has been
trying, I think."
He spoke in a whisper, and his words produced a slight smile, but no
blush, upon Constance's face, and her only reply was:
"Hush, hush!"
"Nay, then, if he can't succeed, I must try," continued Sir William;
"though, to say truth, it would be somewhat like an old suit of armour
dancing a quick step. But why should you not be happy in the world, as
well as your fair cousin?"
"Is she happy?" asked Constance, with a sigh.
"Ay, that is a question, in regard to which I have some doubt,"
answered the good knight; "but, no more at present; the popinjay is
turning round. Now, I'll warrant, he has discussed the whole question
of the superiority of cendel over laid silk, with that pretty little
thing on his right, who seems to have as many ideas as he has; and, I
will answer for it, half an hour's talk would make them both bankrupt,
so that they have stopped payment for lack of coin."
"It is marvellous hot to-night, sweet lady Constance," said Sir Edward
turning towards her. "My cheek burns, till I am sure I must be rosy as
a country justice's serving-man."
"Better that than white and yellow, like a lump of tallow," replied
Sir William Arden, across her. "These people, with their delicate
complexions, drive me mad, as if they thought a man, to be a courtier,
should look like a whey-faced girl, just emptied from the nursery. And
then they must blush too, and find the air oppressive; but there is
one way of banishing the red rose from your cheek. Faint, Hungerford,
faint outright! Then you'll be as pale as usual."
"Did'st thou ever hear, fair lady, such a blustering old son of Mars
as this?" demanded Sir Edward Hungerford. "He thinks no one can fight
but himself, unless he be full of big oaths, with a face like ebony,
and a skin like a rhinoceros."
"Nay, I know thou can'st fight, Hungerford, like a man," answered Sir
William Arden. "More shame for thee to talk like a woman, and dress
like a mountebank. If thou didst take as much care of thy pretty
person in the field, as thou dost in the hall, thou wouldst be a worse
soldier than thou art."
"Gallantly said!" replied the other knight; and, turning again to
Constance, he continued the conversation with her, saying: "He is not
bad at main, this worthy man. Though, to hear him talk, we might
suppose him one of the devils; but it is all talk, dear lady. He is at
heart as gentle as a lamb, except when he is in the field; and then,
of course, he fights for company; but, polish is impossible with him.
His mother forgot to lick him when he was young, I suppose; and so we
have the bear in his native state."
Sir William Arden laughed, though he was the object of the sarcasm;
and, looking round at Constance, he said:
"It is all quite true, lady, as true as what I said of him. We are
famous for drawing each other's characters. So now, you have heard us
described each by the other, say which you like best."
"Good, mighty good!" exclaimed Hungerford. "That is an offer of his
hand and heart."
"Well, so be it," answered Sir William Arden, with a laugh. "That is
something solid at all events. He can offer nothing but a shadow in a
slashed doublet, a mere voice and a walking suit of clothes. Echo is
nothing to him, in respect of thinness; and I should fear his
undergoing Narcissus' fate, but that he loves himself better than even
Narcissus, and would not part with his own pretty person for anything
else whatsoever, be it substance or shadow. He will never pine himself
either into a flower or a water-course, as those young gentlemen and
ladies did in days of old."
"I should be a great fool if I did," replied Hungerford; "but if you
were to begin to melt, Arden, all the world would thaw; for it is
difficult to say whether your head or your heart is the hardest."
"Why, gentlemen, you are using very bitter words," said the pretty
lady, on the other side of Sir Edward Hungerford. "Really I must
appeal to my good Lord Calverly."
"Nay, rather let me appeal to you," said Hungerford, in a tender tone;
and thenceforth he continued to talk with her till the supper was
over, which was all she wanted.
"That shaft is shot," said Arden, resuming the conversation with
Constance, but speaking in a lower tone than before. "You asked but
now, 'Is she happy?' and, good faith, she does not look like it. Her
lips have hardly moved since we sat down to the board; but methinks
that question might be put of every one round. It is not the gay
smile, or the cheerful laugh, that shows a happy heart within; and I
doubt much, if you could see into every bosom along these two ranks of
human things, whether you would not find some hidden care, or some
sorrow that flies the light."
"That is to say," replied Constance, "that every one who mingles with
the world finds unhappiness in it; a fine argument to keep me out of a
convent, truly. Either your gallantry or your wit halts, Sir William;
for, to my knowledge, there is many a happy heart beats in the
cloister."
"Are there no masks there?" asked the stout knight. "If not, there are
veils, fair Constance; and, take my word for it, sooner or later,
there come regrets and repinings, longings to see the world that has
been renounced, and pluck some of the fruit of the pleasant tree of
knowledge, that bitter sweet, the pleasant berries of which tempt the
eye from afar, although there is now no serpent hid amongst the
foliage."
"But look at my good aunt, the abbess," answered the young lady. "She
has none of these regrets and repinings that you mention. She is
always merry, cheerful, contented."
"Ay, but hers is a case by itself," answered Arden. "She can get out
when she likes; and a good creature she is. Her life is as easy as a
widow's. No, no. Take my advice, and think not of a convent."
"Why, what would you have me do in the wide world?" asked Constance,
half gaily, half sadly.
"Why, marry to be sure," replied the good knight, "and have a score of
cherub babes, to cheer you with their pleasant faces. Let me tell you,
it is like having heaven round your knees, and you are not a whit the
less likely in the end to reach the heaven overhead."
"But suppose no one would have me," answered Constance, with a smile.
"Try all the young fellows first, and then try me," answered Sir
William, bluffly, but with a light laugh at the same time, which
softened the point of his words; and Constance answered--
"No, no. A woman can try no one. I must be wooed and won."
"On my life, if I thought you could," murmured Arden to himself, "I
think I would try;" but the words did not reach Constance's ear; and,
after a short pause of thought, the old knight said abruptly, "I don't
like your fair cousin's looks."
"And yet they are fair looks too," answered Constance.
"Ay, so are my cousin Chartley's," said the knight; "but I don't like
his looks either."
"They are gay enough, surely," replied Constance. "See, he is laughing
even now."
"Did you ever see a will-o'-the-wisp?" asked Sir William.
"Yes," said Constance. "What of that?"
"They flit over deep morasses and dangerous spots," answered the
knight. "Don't you let Chartley's laugh mislead you. See how he holds
his head in the air, with his nostril spread, and his lip curling. Be
sure, when he laughs with such a look as that, there is something very
bitter at his heart."
"But they say he is half a prisoner here," rejoined Constance. "That
is enough to make him sad."
"Would that were all," replied Arden; "but let us talk no more of him.
It is your fair cousin I am thinking of. When she sat opposite to me
at the abbey, a week or two ago, her eyes were like stars that
glistened up instead of down. Her brow was smooth and clear. Her lip
played in smiles with every thought. I would fain know what it is has
clouded that ivory brow, what it is weighs down that rosy arch, and
sinks the sweeping eye-lashes to her cheek."
"I cannot tell," answered Constance, with a little mental reservation;
"but I suppose great changes coming, when they are foreseen, will make
the heart somewhat pensive."
"Pensive, but not sorrowful," answered Arden. "Well, well," he added,
"I see your uncle moving in his seat, as if we should not be long side
by side. Let me see--when you were a little smiling child, just
toddling about your nurse's knee, I was in arms, dealing hard blows in
more than one stricken field. There is a mighty difference between our
ages, some four and twenty years perhaps--Nay, do not be afraid. I am
not going to ask you--but, methinks, a young thing like you may place
some confidence in a man old enough to be your father; and all I can
say is if you, or your fair cousin, need counsel of a head that has
had some experience, or help from an arm none of the weakest, you may
rely upon a heart which has been ever believed true to friend and foe,
to man or woman. There, my dear child, I have said my say. It is for
you to act upon it, as you think fit."
Sunk almost to a whisper with much emotion, the voice of Constance
answered--
"I thank you deeply;" and the next moment, according to a bad custom,
even then prevalent, the ladies of the party rose, and left the
gentlemen to pursue their revel unchecked.
We must go back a little, however; for during the meal we have
followed only one little group at that long table. What was the
conduct, what were the thoughts of Lord Fulmer, while all this was
passing? He sat beside Iola in anguish, the anguish of doubt and
jealousy; and, conscious that his mood was not fitted to win or
please, he struggled with it sorely. He determined to use every
effort, both to conquer himself, and to gain her love; but it is
difficult to conquer an enemy without when there is an enemy within;
and the very effort embarrassed him. If he sat silent for a minute or
two, he was revolving what he should say. When he did speak, it was
not the tone or the words of the heart which came forth; the whole was
studied; the effort was too evident. He felt it, yet could not help
it; and Iola's reply did not generally aid or encourage him. It was
courteous but cold, civil but not kind--very brief too; and the moment
it was uttered, she fell into thought again. It was clear there was a
struggle in her mind, as well as his, and the only difference was,
that she did not strive to conceal it. He was angry with her and with
himself; with her, because she did not put on at least the semblance
of regard she did not feel; with himself, because he knew that his own
want of self-command was every moment betraying the interests of a
passion which was growing upon him more and more, even under doubt and
disappointment. Still he struggled, still he strove to please, or, at
least, to amuse; but it was in vain. His words were cold and formal,
and Iola was grave, absent, thoughtful, so that no conversation lasted
more than a minute. At length he gave it up. He struggled no more. He
yielded to the feelings within; but they impelled him in a very
different course from that of Iola. She saw, heard, marked, very
little of what passed at the table. Buried in her own thoughts, she
only roused herself from time to time, to reply to her uncle, who sat
at her side, or to answer the abbess, who was placed opposite, or to
give a momentary timid look towards the face of Chartley.
Fulmer, on the contrary, was full of eager observation, quickened by
the passions in his heart. "I will know all," he thought. "I will
force Hungerford to tell me all--ay, this very night. I cannot live in
this torture any longer? and if I find it as I think, that man shall
answer me with his heart's best blood. What right had he to win the
affections of my contracted wife. He must have known that she was so.
Every one knew it; but I will be satisfied. Hungerford shall explain
his words before he lays his head upon his pillow."
He could not be content to wait for that explanation, however; and, as
I have said, he watched, in order to ascertain, as far as possible,
how far the evil, which he suspected, had gone. Three times he saw the
eyes of Iola raised for an instant to Chartley's face, and then as
speedily withdrawn. Oh, what would he have given, in some mysterious
glass, to have seen a picture of the emotions which were passing in
her breast. The first time she looked at him, her colour was
heightened the moment she withdrew her eyes. He could not tell why,
and he puzzled himself to divine the cause. Was it that Chartley was
talking with another, and that his tone was gay? Or was it that she
found the eyes of the abbess upon her, and, blushed from
consciousness. The second time she looked that way, a slight passing
smile followed--the mere shadow of a smile. Was it that Chartley,
fallen into a fit of absence, committed some strange error, which made
those around him laugh. The next glance she gave left her in deeper
thought than ever; and to him her eyes seemed to swim in bright dew;
but she dropped the deep veil of long silken lashes over the
glistening drop, and it was hidden.
In the mean time, what marked he in Chartley's conduct? It was the
same in some respects as Iola's, but different in others. He often
looked to the spot where she was seated; but it was in a calmer,
firmer, less timid manner. Once or twice his gaze was earnest, intent,
full of deep thought. There was no levity in it, none of the
confidence of knowing that he was loved. It was a look of almost
painful interest, deep, tender, grave; and once he fixed his eyes upon
Fulmer himself, and gazed at him long, notwithstanding an angry
expression which came upon the young lord's face. Busied altogether
with what was passing in his own mind, Chartley saw not that irritable
look, never fancied that it was called up by his own. He scanned every
feature of his face, as if he were scrutinizing some inanimate object
which could not perceive or comprehend the examination it was
undergoing. And yet that gaze almost drove Fulmer mad; and even the
way in which it was withdrawn, the fit of thought which succeeded, and
then the start, and the resumption of conversation with those around,
all irritated the young man more.
Fortunately, some time elapsed before the gentlemen there present were
left without the restraint of ladies' presence; for Fulmer had time to
recover himself; and, though still highly irritated, to recollect what
was due to Iola, to himself, and to his entertainer. He resolved
to bridle his passion, and to guide it; and, could he have kept
the resolutions which he formed--he did not, as the reader will
see--though not altogether good ones, they were much better than the
wild impulses of passion.
"There must be no quarrel _about her_," he thought. "I must not mingle
her name is our enmity--I have no right to do that. 'Tis easy to
provoke him upon some other subject; nor will I too hastily do that,
for the good old lord's sake. I will irritate him by degrees, till the
actual offence comes from him; and then to justify myself with my
sword is a right. I can do it with all courtesy too, and I will."
If man's resolutions are generally rendered vain and fruitless, by the
force of circumstances, when they affect things over which he has no
control, it is sad to think that they should be so often rendered
ineffectual, by passions, when they refer only to his own conduct,
over which he should have the mastery. So, however, it is
often--almost always--I had well nigh said, ever. It was not otherwise
with Fulmer. His resolutions passed away, under the heat of his
temper, like the shadowy clouds of morning. Ere five minutes were
over, he was in full career to irritate, if not to insult, Chartley.
His resolutions to be courteous, to be moderate, were forgotten, and
his tone was very offensive.
But the calm indifference of manner on Chartley's part, while it
provoked him, frustrated his purpose. His rival, for as such he now
fully looked upon him, heard any words he addressed to him calmly,
replied to them briefly, and then seemed to withdraw his thoughts from
him altogether. It was impossible to engage him in any irritating
conversation, his answers were so short, so tranquil, so conclusive;
and Fulmer, driven at length to seek more plain and open means of
offence, began to touch upon the cause of Chartley's having fallen
under the king's displeasure, thinking that thus, at least, he should
draw him forth from his reserve. But here old Lord Calverly at once
interposed.
"Nay, nay, my noble friend," he said. "These are subjects that are
never spoken of, except when they are matters of mere business; but
methinks it is time to seek repose. My noble Lord Chartley, I will
once more conduct you to your lodging. After to-night, you will be
able, methinks, to find your way yourself;" and he at once rose from
the table.