It was like a cloud passing away from a summer sky. It was as when a
weary traveller laying down the heavy burden he has carried far, by
the side of the road, stretches his freed limbs in an interval of
rest. Such was the effect of Lord Fulmer's departure from Chidlow.
Iola's light and buoyant heart bounded up from beneath the load; all
her bright and happy spirits returned; the smile came back to her lip;
and, though the rose took longer to expand upon her cheek again, yet,
after a night of sweet calm rest, some part of the bloom had returned.
Constance was never very gay; but she was cheerful. Chartley felt that
a source of constant irritation and annoyance was removed; and, with
the happy facility of youth, he prepared to enjoy the present hour,
careless of fortune's turn the next. Even the abbess, though she knew
little or nothing of what had been passing in the hearts around her,
seemed to share in the relief, and laughed and talked in merry mood,
especially with Chartley, who was an object of high admiration to her.
Clear-sighted Sir William Arden, who had seen right well that Chartley
and his rival could not go on long in the same dwelling without danger
of bloodshed, felt his apprehensions removed; and Sir Edward
Hungerford remarked:--
"Well, I am glad Fulmer is gone; for he was turning marvellous fierce,
and he wore such an ill-appointed doublet. It was painful to see the
blue and yellow, and made one think of some strange bird."
Only the good pompous lord of the castle seemed unchanged; and he,
"full of wise saws and modern instances," walked gravely about,
reasoning in very trite sort upon all he saw, and lecturing rather
than conversing.
Early in the morning of the day after Fulmer's departure, all those
who were mere guests, invited for a day or two, took their leave and
left the castle. The abbess proposed to return to her cure on the
following morning; and Lord Calverly was laying out various plans for
making the heavy time pass lightly, when a courier arrived with
letters from the king's lieutenant in the county.
"Now good faith," he said, "this is unfortunate; for it breaks all my
purposes. This noble lord here requires my immediate presence, to
consult as to the best and most approved means of preserving peace and
tranquillity in the county. He knows I have some experience in such
things; and, though my judgment be but a poor judgment, yet he has
confidence therein. Strange stories are current, he says, of meetings
of peasantry by night, and strangers coming from distant parts to be
present thereat. God forefend that there should be new troubles
coming! But I must to horse and away. I will return before night; and,
in the mean time, lords and ladies, you must amuse yourselves as best
you may. There are fish in the stream, deer in the park, chess, dice,
and other games in the little hall, instruments of music in the
gallery, lutes, citherns, and the rest, so that you have means of
entertainment if you seek it; and, good faith, if you are dull I
cannot help it; for you know, my Lord Chartley, the call of duty is
imperative, and courtesy, which gives place to nothing else, must
yield to that."
They were not dull; but how shall I describe the passing of that day?
To Chartley and to Iola it was a long draught of the cup of joy. Did
they drink too deeply? I almost fear they did. Chartley _resolved_ to
act in all things prudently, to be calm, quiet, and upon his guard,
though courteous and easy, as he would be to any lady in whom he had
no interest. Iola _resolved_ neither to be cold nor warm in manner
towards him, neither to encourage nor to repel, to seek nor to avoid,
to let his conduct be the guide of hers, to govern her feelings and to
tranquillise her heart.
Oh, resolutions, resolutions! How that heart, which was to be so
tranquil, beat, when her uncle rode away, and she felt herself left
with him she loved, to pass the hours almost as they would! Heaven
knows how they flew. Chartley was often with her. He did not shut
himself in his chamber. He did not ride out to hunt, nor walk forth to
meditate alone. At first he conversed with her, as they had done at
their meeting in the abbey, gaily, cheerfully, with a vein of thought
running through the merriment, and a touch of feeling softening the
whole. But they were sometimes left alone together; and gradually they
began to call up the memories of the past, to talk of scenes and
incidents which had occurred, and words which had been spoken during
the long adventurous night they had passed in the forest. It was
dangerous ground; they felt it shake beneath them; but yet they would
not move away. Their hearts thrilled as they spoke. Iola, with the eye
of memory, saw Chartley sitting at her feet; and he, in fancy, felt
her breath fanning his cheek as her head drooped upon his shoulder in
sleep. Oh, how treacherous associations will open the gates of the
heart to any enemy that desires to enter! They approached nearer and
nearer to subjects which they had determined to avoid; they even spoke
of them in circuitous and ambiguous phrases. The words which they
uttered did not express their full meaning, but the tones and the
looks did; and, by the time that the sun had sunk to within half an
hour's journey of the horizon, Iola and Chartley knew that they loved
each other, as well as if they had spoken and vowed it a thousand
times.
She was agitated, much agitated, it is true, but perhaps less so than
he was; and to see why, we must look for a moment into their hearts.
Iola felt that in loving him she was doing no wrong, that the contract
which bound her to Lord Fulmer was altogether void and invalid, that
marriages in infancy, where that mutual and reasonable consent is
absent, upon which every contract must be based, were altogether
unlawful; and that therefore, morally and religiously, she was as free
as if her relations had never unjustly made a promise in her name. It
may be that she had been easily convinced--it may be that love for one
and disliking for another had smoothed the way for such conviction;
but still she was _convinced_; and no consciousness of doing wrong
added weight to other emotions. She might contemplate the future with
dread; she might gaze upon the coming days as upon a wide sea of
tumultuous waves, through which she could see no track, beyond which
appeared no shore; and she might tremble lest the billows should
overwhelm her. But she felt confident in the protection of Heaven, and
sure that she was doing nought to forfeit it.
Not so exactly Chartley. Not alone the future, but the present also,
had its darkness for him. He knew not her exact situation; he knew not
whether the ceremonies of the church--often in those days performed
between mere children, and looked upon, when once performed, as a
sacrament, merely requiring an after benediction to be full and
complete--had or had not taken place between her and Lord Fulmer. His
reason might teach him that such espousals, where neither the heart
nor the judgment were consulted, were in themselves wicked and
dangerous; but his mind had not yet reached the point of considering
them quite invalid. He had been brought up as a strict Roman Catholic.
It was the only religion tolerated in his native land; and, although
he could not but see that gross corruptions had crept into the church
to which he belonged, and that many of the grossest of those
corruptions had been made the foundation of dogmas even more dangerous
than themselves, yet, not having met with any of the followers of
Wickliffe, he had never heard the heresies, the idolatries, or the
usurpations of the Roman church fully exposed--nor indeed
attacked--till passing through Bohemia, in his return from the East,
he had met with some of the disciples of Huss at a small road-side
inn. The conversation had been free; for, far from large towns, the
doctrines which the council of Constance could not suppress were more
boldly spoken; and Chartley heard words which shook his faith in the
infallibility of Rome, and made him, determine to inquire and judge
for himself at an after period. He had not yet inquired, however; and,
even while he gave way to the impulses of the heart, he felt doubtful,
fearful of his own conduct. Had such not been the case, the passion in
his breast would have found open and undisguised utterance. Dangers
and difficulties he would have set at nought; impediments he would
have overleaped, with the knowledge that he was loved in return. But
now he doubted, as I have said, hesitated, suffered his love to be
seen, rather than declared it openly.
The abbess sat embroidering at one end of the hall, while Iola and
Chartley stood together in the oriel window at the other; and Sir
William Arden, with the right knee thrown across the left, and his
head bent, pored over the miniatures in a richly illuminated
manuscript of Monstrelet, lifting his eyes from time to time, with a
thoughtful look, towards Chartley and Iola, and thinking, if the truth
must be told, that Constance was somewhat long absent. The glow of the
evening sun, poured full through the window at which the lovers were
standing, concentrated upon them by the stone work; and, both so
beautiful and full of grace, they looked in that haze of golden beams
like the old pictures of saints in glory. Just at that moment
Constance entered the hall with a light step, and a more cheerful look
than usual. She too had been reading; and she had found what she
sought, truth--truth, which came home to her own heart, and dispelled
every doubt and shadow within it. She looked up at the window, as she
crossed the hall, and said, in a low sweet voice:
"What a fair evening! The sunset must look beautiful from the
ramparts."
"So it must!" exclaimed Iola. "Let us go out and enjoy it. Will you
come, dear lady mother?" she added, raising her voice to reach the ear
of the abbess.
"No, dear child, no," replied the elder lady, "I must finish this
cat's head. I never saw such a troublesome puss in my life;" and she
laughed merrily. "I cannot get her whiskers in, all I can do. When I
make them black, they look like a spot of ink, and when I make them
white, they look like a drop of cream. But go, my children, go. The
evening is beautiful; and sunsets and sunrises, and such sort of
things, do young people good. Forget not to tell your beads, Iola, as
he goes down; for no one can ever tell what his rising may look upon."
Without any other covering of the head than that which they wore in
the house, the two girls went forth with Chartley, Sir William
starting up and following. It need not be asked how the party divided
itself. Ah, it is a pleasant number, four. It does not admit of much
variety; but, on most occasions, it is perfect in itself. Happy Iola,
how gaily she walked on by Chartley's side, round those same walls
which she had trod some evenings before, with a pale cheek and anxious
eye, and a heart well nigh despairing. Now all the scene was bright
and beautiful, on the one side spreading out the purple glow of
evening, on the other, the pale primrose of the west growing fainter
at the approach of night, and the golden hills all round crowning
themselves with the beams of the departing sun. As if to leave them
free room to say all that might be sweet, yet dangerous, to say, Sir
William Arden and Constance lingered a good way behind, paused often,
once or twice sat down, till Iola and Chartley, circling all round the
walls, came back to them again.
What was Sir William Arden doing? I verily believe he was making love
in his own peculiar way; for, every now and then, in the midst of
smiles at some odd frank speech, a faint blush fluttered over
Constance's fair cheek, as if she felt that, in his warmer words,
there was an allusion to herself.
Chartley and Iola passed them by, each party so full of their own
thoughts as not to notice the other.
"It was indeed," said Chartley, "a night ever to be remembered--at
least by me--a night full of sensations new, and deep, and thrilling;
sensations known but once in a whole lifetime. Nor do I think that you
will ever forget it. Did I not tell you, that it was one of those
points of time which raise their heads above the waste of the past,
and are seen like a mountain peak, till man is at the end of his
journey?"
"It cannot be forgot, indeed," replied Iola, and cast her eyes down
thoughtfully.
"Strange words you spoke that night," continued Chartley; "words that
to me were then like the mysterious figures upon Egyptian stones, of
which I could interpret nothing. Now, alas, I have got the key."
"What words?" demanded Iola. "What words of mine can even from memory
produce so sad a tone?" and she looked up in his face, with the
feeling of her heart but too plainly written in her eyes.
"You spoke," replied Chartley, "words that have rung in my ear ever
since, 'Happy are those who have no ties to bind them!' I now knew of
what ties you spoke--" and he added, almost vehemently, "Oh that I
could rend them, and scatter them to the winds."
"Chartley!" said Iola, pausing for an instant, and then immediately
resuming her walk.
"Forgive me!" said Chartley. "I know I am wrong. I know it is very
wrong, even to feel what I feel, and that to speak it is worse.
Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," replied Iola, in a very low tone. "You
have done no wrong, that I know of."
"Oh yes, I have," answered Chartley. "I have agitated and alarmed you
by my rash words. You tremble, even now."
"Every wind will move a willow," answered Iola. "If I tremble,
Chartley, it is not from what you think; but, I say you have done no
wrong, and I mean it."
"What, not to acknowledge love to the wife of another?" said Chartley.
"I, I, his wife!" said Iola, with a start. "No, no, I am not, and
never will be. The sin were, if I vowed to love where I cannot love,
if I promised what cannot be performed;" and, casting her eyes to the
ground again, she clasped her hands together, and walked on by his
side in silence.
"What then," said Chartley, after a moment's thought, "has not the
church's sanction of your contract been pronounced?"
She remained silent for about a minute, ere she answered; and the many
changes which passed over her beautiful countenance, during that short
space, are impossible to describe. Then she looked up again, with one
of those bright and glorious looks, in which a happy spirit seems to
speak out, triumphing over dark thoughts or memories; but still there
were drops in her eyes.
"Hear what there exists," she said. "I had little knowledge of it
myself till I came here; but this, I now learn, is all. There is a
cold parchment, contracting in marriage one Iola St. Leger to one
Arnold Lord Fulmer. To it are signed the names of Calverly, Talbot,
Bouchier, Savage, and other peers and gentlemen, having some
guardianship over, or interest in, those two persons mentioned. But,
above all," she added, with a faint smile and a rueful shake of the
head, "are two crosses, somewhat crooked, shaken, and unseemly; for,
in truth, I think our little hands must have been guided in the making
of them, which, as at the side it is testified in clerkly hand, are
the signatures of Arnold Lord Fulmer and Iola St. Leger. This is all,
Lord Chartley."
"Then you are mine," said Chartley, in a low, deep, eager tone; "then
you are mine. Tell me not of obstacles, think me not over bold. Iola
would never have uttered what she has, had her heart not been ready to
say, Yea; and as for obstacles, I will devour them like a flame."
Iola now trembled more than before.
"Hush, hush!" she said, "Do not speak so vehemently; you frighten me,
Chartley. I must beseech you to do nothing rashly. Say nothing to any
one at present--nay, not a word. I must entreat, I must beg--and"
resuming in a degree her gay tone, she added: "more, I must command,
that you interfere not in the least. You are my servant, are you not?
Well then, servant, I order you to take no part in this whatever. Fear
nothing, Chartley. Light as I seem, gay, as I am, gentle as I would
fain be to all, I can be as firm as iron, where I am sure I have right
on my side, as I am sure here. I cannot love him. I will not marry
him; but the refusal must come from my own lips, and not be spoken by
another."
"But they may find means to overbear your will," said Chartley,
"unless you have some support--ay, and that support must be a strong
arm, a stout heart, and powerful means."
"Should the time ever come when I need it," said Iola, "you shall
have instant notice."
"But they may force you into a convent," said Chartley. "That, I
believe, is within their power to do. At least, I have heard of
several instances where it has been done."
"They would find it difficult with me," replied Iola. "They might
force me into a prison, it is true; but vows against my conscience I
will never take, to mortal man or to the altar. One thing, perhaps,
they can do; for of that I know little. They may take from me these
broad lands, and the goodly heritage which my father possessed and
forfeited. I am reputed to be their heiress; but doubtless my uncle
can take them from me, if I obstinately oppose his will."
"That is not worth a thought," answered Chartley. "Wealth has
undoubtedly its value, my Iola; but it is not happiness, and only a
small ingredient therein. Let us speak of things of more importance. I
cannot but fear you calculate too much upon your strength, your
courage, and your power of resistance. But leave the matter to me, and
I will contrive to cut the gordian knot of all difficulties, in a very
short space of time. There is a plan before my eyes, even now, which
could hardly fail us."
"Would you cut that knot, like the Macedonian, with your sword?" said
Iola, gazing at him with a meaning look. "No, Chantey, that must not
be. If you love me as you say, you will not attempt it. Nay, more, you
will trust to me, and to the promise which I make, to call upon you at
once, in the moment of need, whenever that moment comes."
"But I may be absent. You may have no means," replied Chartley.
"Ah, I have means and messengers that you know not at," answered Iola
gaily, "fairies that will fly like swallows with my messages, elves of
the green wood that will track you for me through their darkest
bowers. Nay, I am serious, Chartley. What would you think if I were to
tell you that even in the midnight, with doors all bolted, barred, and
locked, the keys lying by the heavy porter's head, and all the warders
snoring in their beds, I can pass forth from this castle, and sport
upon the lawns and slopes around, as if it had no walls--nay, that I
have done it."
"Then you are a fairy yourself," answered Chartley, "as I have been
half inclined to think ere now. But I have your promise; your solemn
promise, that nothing shall ever force you, to this detested marriage,
and that you will send to me, or give me notice, the moment that my
aid is needful--and not delay too long."
"I will," she answered, emphatically. "Methinks you would not find it
difficult to guard me once more through the green forest, as you did
one night we both remember; and should it be needful, Chartley, so to
do, I will then trust as implicitly to your honour as I did before;
for Iola will be wholly at your mercy. But I must have promise for
promise, and vow for vow. You must assure me that, whatever you see,
whatever you hear, you will remain quiescent, and leave the whole
decision to myself."
"Then if that youth returns," answered Chartley, "I must shut myself
up in my dull tower, and make myself a prisoner indeed."
Iola smiled, saying in a low tone--
"It might perhaps be better--if Chartley cannot rule Chartley. But
happily there is no chance of my being pressed on this sad subjects
for weeks or months to come, as I learn from Constance that the king
has refused to give an immediate consent; for which I could almost
say, Heaven bless him."
"That is happy news indeed," answered Chartley; "and yet, Iola, I
could wish that if a struggle is to be made, it might be soon made;
for nothing is so painful as uncertainty."
"All men are alike in that, I see," replied Iola; "we women love to
put off the evil day."
"It may indeed, in this instance, be as well," answered Chartley, "for
it gives time for preparation; and that I will commence at once."
"Preparation for what?" demanded Iola in some surprise.
"For any thing that may occur," replied Chartley; "but for one thing
we must both be prepared, sweet Iola--for flight--ay, flight to
distant lands, love; for think not that if we venture to unite our
fate by the dearest and the holiest rite, against the consent of your
family, in defiance of their contract, and without the king's
permission, this land will be safe for us thenceforward. Richard is
well fitted to find treason in such acts; and, if he cannot part you
from your husband, to take your husband's head. My preparation
therefore must be, not only to secure a refuge in another land, but to
provide means there, to keep us from poverty or dependence. But that
will be easily accomplished. Will you regret it, Iola? Will you shrink
from it--to pass some few years with Chartley on a foreign shore, and
leave this fair land and all the memories of home behind you?"
"No, oh no!" she answered; "I will neither shrink nor regret. My home
will ever be with my heart--" she paused, and the crimson spread gently
over her cheek, as she felt how much her words implied. Her eyes too,
sunk under the warm, and tender, and grateful gaze which was bent upon
her; but the next moment she asked, in her low sweet tones--"Will you
never regret, Chartley? Will you never think that you have paid for
Iola's hand too dear a price, when memory turns back to your native
land, high station, wealth, ambition, all sacrificed for her?"
"Never," answered Chartley; "were it to cost me all, and leave us but
a cabin and bare food, I would not hesitate now, or regret hereafter.
I do but change dross for a jewel of inestimable price, and I will
value it ever as I do now."
They were both silent for several minutes; and then, as they turned
the north western angle of the walls, they saw the sun setting in the
splendour of scattered clouds, and Constance and Sir William Anton
advancing towards them. Iola perceived that her cousin's step wanted
its quiet steadiness; and when her eye fixed on her face, a blush rose
in Constance's cheek.
"There is the sun setting and your uncle rising, lady," said Sir
William Arden, in a gay voice, pointing with his hand in the direction
of the road across the park, upon which several horsemen might be seen
advancing--"we shall soon have the light of his countenance, though
the star goes down."
"Let us go in," said Iola, in a hurried tone; "perhaps we have already
staid out too long; but the evening has been so beautiful."
"And the conversation so sweet," said Arden, almost in a whisper to
Constance; "so should close the phrase both with Chartley and with me,
if I had aught of the court in my nature. I will study, dear lady--I
will study, and rub off the rust which has gathered between my armour
and my skin."
"No--Be ever, what you are," answered Constance.