An old man, with a long white beard, presented himself before the
princess countess of Arran, almost the moment after she had knocked,
and, in answer to her demand to see the lady, simply said, "Follow
me," and led the way along the passage. Her heart beat; her brain
seemed giddy; her whole frame was agitated; but she went on; and, at
the end of a step or two, her guide opened a door, and held it in his
hand, till she had entered. Then closing it he retired.
The sun, as I have said, had sunk; but the twilight was clear, and the
windows of the room looked towards the west, where lingered still the
rosy hues of the setting sun. The room was filled with a sort of hazy
purple air, and the objects which it contained, though shadowy and
somewhat indistinct, could still be seen clearly enough. Standing not
far from one of the windows, with the light background of the sky
behind her, so that her features were not discernible, the princess
Mary beheld the beautiful form of a girl, apparently eighteen or
nineteen years of age. As the rays passing from behind glanced on the
rich satin of her robe, and the gold lace that fringed the bodice, it
was evident to Mary that the person before her was dressed in the
gorgeous habiliments of the court of of that time. She could see
nothing more at the first moment, but as the girl advanced towards
her, the face was slightly turned towards the window, and the fine
chiselled features were beheld in profile, showing at once, how
beautiful they must be when the light of day displayed them more
fully.
"Welcome, lady," said the sweet tones of Iola, the music of her voice
thrilling upon the ear of the princess, like the notes of some
delicate instrument, although there was much emotion in those tones.
"You have come somewhat sooner than I expected. I presume I speak to
the princess Mary."
"The same, my child," replied the lady, taking her hand, which Iola
had partly offered. "This is a strange meeting; and you tremble more
than I do, though I am told that from your voice I shall hear tidings
which, whatever be their especial nature, may well shake and agitate
my heart and frame."
"I am not wont to be so weak," said Iola; "nor to fear, nor to
hesitate; but yet I cannot help it at this moment. Let us sit down for
a while, and speak of other things, so that these emotions may pass
away."
"They will but increase by delay," replied Mary; "and I am eager to
hear from your lips, or indeed from any lips, those tidings which to
me are as the words of Fate. Speak, then, dear child, speak at once,
and tell me what you know."
"Nay, lady," said Iola, in a very grave and even melancholy tone,
withdrawing her hand from that of the princess; "I have questions to
ask as well as you; and they must be answered, before my lips are
unsealed."
"Nay, this is cruel," said the princess Mary, "to torture me with
delay, when the sight of that cross, the gift of early pure affection,
to him I loved the best, and this mysterious journey, and this strange
meeting, have raised my expectations--oh, that I dared say my hopes to
the highest point--it is cruel indeed."
"No, not cruel," answered Iola. "Could the dead see all the actions
of the living, would the living dare to meet the dead? I have a
hard and painful task to perform, and I must perform it. Yet, dear
lady, I would do it with all gentleness, for I have to ask painful
questions--questions which, if my heart tell me true, may raise anger
and indignation, as well as cause pain and sorrow."
"Speak then, speak then," said Mary, impatiently. "Let them be quickly
over."
"Well, then, as it must be so," said Iola, "let me first say, I know
the early history well, the marriage of the princess Mary to the earl
of Arran, her brother's subject and friend, the advantage which base
enemies took of his absence in Denmark, in his sovereign's service, to
ruin his father and his uncle, to seize his estates, forfeit his
honours, and blast his name--a name on which the voice of calumny
never breathed till then."
Mary sank into a seat and covered her eyes with her hands; but Iola
went on, seeming to hurry her words to get over her painful task with
speed.
"I know, too," she said, "the generous devotion of the princess, that
she fled in disguise from her brother's court, to warn her husband of
his danger, when he returned from his successful embassy, bringing
with him his sovereign's royal bride; I know that she sought his fleet
in a poor skiff, and fled with him into exile and poverty; I know that
she only returned to her own land, after years of exile, on the
delusive promise that her petition and submission would recover his
estates and honours, for him she loved. Hitherto, all is clear; but,
now comes the question--Lady, forgive me," she continued, taking
Mary's hand, and kissing it; "but I must pain you."
"Speak, dear child, speak," said the princess. "There is nought in my
whole life, that I am not ready to tell here or anywhere."
"Well, then," said Iola, with a sigh; "did the princess Mary, when her
husband was doing his knightly devoir here on this English ground, in
behalf of the house which had befriended him and his, did she consent
to a divorce from her once-loved lord, and----"
"Never, never, never!" cried the princess, starting from her seat,
"never, by word or deed. What, has that dark tale come hither too?
'Twas done without my consent or knowledge; and, when done, I raised
my voice and wrote my protest against it. They told me he was dead.
They told me that he fell there, on Atherston moor--fell, as he lived,
in noble deeds and gallant self-devotion."
"And then, hearing of his death," said Iola, in a voice sunk to the
lowest tone with emotion; "the princess married James, Lord Hamilton."
"'Tis false!" exclaimed Mary, vehemently; and then, clasping Iola's
hand in her own, she added: "Strange, mysterious girl, how is it that
you, who know so much, do not know more? Hamilton was kind. He sought
my noble husband as a brother, spoke in his favour to the king, raised
his voice with mine; and, when at length the news of his death came,
my brother and my sovereign signed a contract of marriage on my
behalf, between him and me, and in his bounty gave lands and lordships
to Lord Hamilton and the Princess Mary, his wife. They laid the
contract before me, and I tore it and scattered it to the winds--for I
had doubts," she added, in a low thoughtful voice. "I saw couriers
going and coming to and from England, whose tidings were concealed
from me; and, I had doubts--I have still doubts--that he died then.
Now, I am sure he is dead, or they would not give me liberty to roam
and seek his burial-place; for, ever since that day, when I tore the
contract before my brother's face, in name I have been free, in truth
a prisoner. I had but one faithful servant, whom I could trust. He,
indeed, once deceived me, because he was himself deceived. He told me
that my husband was dead in Denmark; and when we found, from certain
intelligence, that he was here in England, warring for the house of
Lancaster, the poor man was more thunderstruck than I was, for I had
not believed the tale. Oh, how the heart clings to hope--how it clasps
the faded flower, when even the root is withered. Still, still, till
the end I hoped! With what tears I watered my pillow! With what
prayers I wearied Heaven. Although I saw letters telling plainly that
he died, sword in hand, on Atherston moor, I would not believe, till
they told me at length, but a few months since, that, if I pleased, I
might come and seek him myself. But, oh, dear child, that hope which I
so fondly clung to would become a horror and a terror, if I could
believe that my dear, my noble Arran, had been lingering on here,
living, and yet doubting of my faith and truth. I know what his noble
mind would have felt; I know how his kind and generous heart would
have been wrung; I know the black despair into which he would have
fallen. But it cannot be. I will not believe it. He would have
written; he would have sent; he would have found some means to
re-assure and comfort me. Now, then, I have answered all. Tell me,
tell me, I beseech you, how died my husband? Where have they laid him?
But you are weeping, my poor child."
"Stay a moment," said Iola, her voice half choked with sobs. "I shall
recover in a minute. Then I will tell you all;" and, breaking away
from her, she, quitted the room suddenly.
With a foot of light, Iola trod the passage nearly to the end, and
opened a door, from which immediately a light streamed forth.
Sitting at a table underneath a burning sconce, with his arms resting
on the board, and his forehead on his arms, was a tall and powerful
man, dressed in the garments of a nobleman of high rank, somewhat
antiquated indeed in point of fashion, but still rich and in good
taste. He seemed not to hear Iola's foot; for he moved not, although
the stillness of his figure was broken by the heaving of his chest
with a long, deep, gasping sigh. She laid her hand upon his arm,
saying:
"Look up, look up. Sunshine has come again."
He raised his head with a start; and the countenance before her was
that of Boyd the woodman.
With that eager grace so charming to see but indescribable in words,
Iola caught his hand and kissed it, as he gazed upon her with a look
of doubt and wonder.
"It is all false," she cried, "all utterly false! She is yours--has
been yours always. True, through wrong, and persecution, and deceit,
she is yours still--yours only."
"False," cried Boyd. "False? How can it be false? With my own eyes I
saw the announcement of his sister's marriage to James Hamilton, in
the king's own hand."
"He signed the contract," cried Iola, "without her consent; but she
tore the contract, and refused to ratify it."
"But my letters, my unanswered letters?" said Boyd.
"She has been watched and guarded, surrounded by spies and deceivers,"
exclaimed Iola, eagerly. "Hear all I have to tell you. Much may even
then remain to be explained, but, believe me, oh, believe me, all will
be explained clearly and with ease."
"I know that one traitor, that John Radnor, was bought to tell her I
was dead, when not ten days before he had spoken to me--me, ever his
kind and generous lord--and knew that I was safe and well. I saw the
proof of the villain's treachery; and I slew him; but, oh, I cannot
think that there are many such. Yet they have been fiends of hell
indeed; for torture, such as the damned undergo, were not more than
they have fixed on me, by making me think my Mary, my beautiful, my
devoted, false to him she loved."
"Oh, she was never false," cried Iola. "They thought to cheat her to
her own despair, by tales of your death; but the instinct of true love
taught her to doubt, till she had seen your tomb with her own eyes."
"I will go to her. I will go to her," cried the earl of Arran, rising
up, and taking a step or two towards the door. But there he paused,
and asked, "Does she still believe me dead?"
"She does," replied Iola, "though perhaps a spark of hope is kindled."
"Go and fan it into flame," replied the earl, "gently, gently, Iola. I
will bear the delay. Yet come as soon as ever she can bear to see me.
Do it speedily, dear girl, but yet not rashly."
"I will be careful. I will be very careful," said Iola; and, hurrying
away, she returned to the chamber where she had left the Princess
Mary, bearing a light with her.
"You have been long, my child," said the Princess; "but your young
heart knows not the anguish of mine; and that fair face speaks no
unkindness."
"It would speak falsely, did it do so," replied Iola. "Methinks the
power to give joy and reawaken hope were the brightest prerogative
that man could obtain from Heaven. And now be seated, dear lady; and I
will sit on this stool at your feet, and tell you a tale, woven into
which will be answers to all that you could question, with many a
comfort too, and a balm for a crushed and wounded heart."
"Angel," cried the princess, drawing her to her and kissing her brow;
"you look and speak like one of Heaven's comforting spirits."
"Listen then," said Lola. "'Tis more than ten years ago that a party
of the lords of Lancaster, led by the gallant earl of Arran, as the
most experienced of the troop, hastened across this country to join
queen Margaret's force at Tewksbury. The news of Barnet had vaguely
reached them; but still they hurried on in the direction which the
retreating army had taken. The main body of their little force
remained for the night on the green at St. Clare. I remember it well,
though I was then but a child of eight years old; for the earl of
Arran came to the Abbey, and I saw him there in his glittering armour.
He came on here himself, with several other gentlemen, and lodged for
the night at this house; for he had learned that a superior body of
troops was on the way to cut him off, in the neighbourhood of
Atherston. The old man whom you saw but now tried to persuade him to
retreat; but his high courage and his good faith led him on; and, on
the following day, he encountered the enemy on the moor, and, for
nearly two hours, made his ground good against a force treble his own
numbers. At length, however, in a strong effort to break through,
having already received an arrow in the arm and a wound in the head,
he was cast from his horse by a lance which pierced through and
through his corslet. The troops then fled, and the day was lost."
Iola's voice trembled as she spoke, and Mary bent down her head upon
her hands and wept.
"Be comforted," said the young girl, taking the princess's hand, and
gazing up towards her. "Hear me out; for there is comfort yet."
"Ha!" exclaimed Mary, suddenly lifting her head. "Was he not slain
then--was he not slain?"
"Hear me to the end," said Iola, "and hear me calmly. The old man you
saw but now had been a follower of the house of Lancaster. He was
interested too in that noble lord; and when he beheld the fugitives
pass along the edge of the wood, and the fierce pursuers spurring
after, he went away towards the field to see if he could aid the
wounded. He found a number of the people from the abbey upon the
field, and some of the good sisters. Litters were procured; the
wounded men were removed; the dying had the consolation of religion;
but the earl of Arran was not found amongst either. While the old man
went his way, the litters travelled slowly to St. Clare. She who was
abbess then asked anxiously for the earl of Arran; but they told her
that he was neither amongst the wounded, nor the dying, nor the dead.
She said they must be mistaken; for a soldier, who had stopped to get
a draught of water at the fountain, had seen him fall pierced with a
spear; and she sent them back with torches, for, by this time, it was
night, to seek for him once more. They sought for him in vain; but the
old franklin, as he had turned homewards, had seen something glitter
in the bushes just at the edge of the wood. On looking nearer, he
found that it was the form of an armed man, with the head of a lance
in his breast. The staff was broken off."
"Oh, God, was he living?" exclaimed the princess.
"He was," replied Iola; "nay, be calm, be calm, and hear me out. I
must tell the rest rapidly. The old man staid with him till nightfall;
then got a cart and moved him hither, where a great part of his
baggage had been left. They dared not send for a surgeon; for pursuit
after the house of Lancaster was fierce, and slaughter raged
throughout the land. But the old man himself extracted the lance's
head, and stanched the bleeding by such simples as he knew. For three
months he tended him as a father would a child; but for nearly a year
he was feeble and unable to move."
"Does he live, does he live?" cried the princess.
"Can you bear it?" asked Iola. "He did live long, for many years; but
he heard tidings which disgusted him with life. Hermit or monk he
would not become; for he had other thoughts; but he cast off rank and
state, and, putting on a lowly garb, he lived as a mere woodman in a
forest near, a servant of the abbey where all my youth was spent."
"But now, but now!" demanded Mary. "Does he live now? Oh, tell me,
tell me!"
As she spoke the door opened. Mary raised her eyes and gazed forward,
with a look of wild bewilderment, and then, with a cry of joy and
recognition, sprang forward and cast herself upon her husband's
bosom.