Red and White: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses

  *CHAPTER XI.*

  *A LAST INTERVIEW.*

  "Now all these things are over,--yes, all thy pretty ways, Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays: And none will grieve when I go forth, nor smile when I return, Nor watch beside the old man's bed, nor weep upon his urn." --LORD MACAULAY.

  The two youthful Annes of the royal House at this period, who werenearly of an age, were very similar in character in all points but one.Both the Princess of Wales and Lady Anne Grey were gentle, amiable,refined, and gifted with deep affections: but the one was strong, andthe other weak. For the strong nature was carved out a heavy cross.For the weak one, there was a light structure appointed, which socrushed down her feeble frame, that it was as oppressive to her as thegreater burden to her cousin.

  The sorrows of the one were close to their ending, while those of theother had little more than begun. Treated at first with apparentkindness and lenity--placed in the keeping of her uncle, and suffered tovisit her beloved mother-in-law,--the Princess of Wales maintained sodauntless a front, and so unswerving a resolution, that Gloucester sawplainly that to wait for any change in her would be to wait for ever.No earthly consideration would ever make her willingly wed with him.So, as she refused to change front, he changed his. One dark evening inthe March of 1473;[#] the Princess was removed from her place ofdetention by a band of armed men. Whither she knew not, until she foundherself, to her amazement, in the lighted aisles of Westminster Abbey,with robed priests awaiting her in the chancel, and the Duke ofGloucester, in gorgeous array, standing before the altar. Then the fullperception of the gulf of misery in which she was to be plunged rushedupon Anne Neville. She tried to fly, but the armed men held her down.She poured out passionate protests--she refused to utter the wordsprescribed by the service--she screamed in agony for the help that wasnot to come. Every thing she did which a lonely, captive girl could do,to show that this detested marriage was accompanied by no good-will andno consent of hers. But she might as well have cried to the stonepillars, or have fled for refuge to the dead kings lying around her.The priests went on with their ceremonies, the choir sang calmly, thebridegroom performed his part of the service, the ring was forced on herfinger, and Richard Plantagenet and Anne Neville were pronounced man andwife, in the name of that God who looked silently down upon theiniquitous scene, and seemed as though He had forgotten the girl whocried in vain even to Him for mercy. With how much more truth may thatdying appeal which has echoed through a hundred years be made, not toliberty, but to the God of all truth and righteousness,--"What crimesare committed in Thy name!" It may have been,--nay, if she were His, itmust have been,--that eleven years later, when Anne Neville's spiritreturned to the God who gave it, she found that His mercy towards herwas better than the mercy she desired of Him, and that but for thatpainful and weary beating of the gold, the vessel would have been unfitfor its place in the sanctuary above.

  [#] The exact date cannot be ascertained, but circumstances point tothis period.

  But meanwhile to Anne Grey the mercy came. The period of her marriedlife, to which she had looked forward with so much dread, proved theleast painful time of her life. Not because Mr. Thomas Grey was anybetter than she had expected to find him, but because, after the firstweek, he relieved her of his company almost entirely. Affection for herhe had none. So long, therefore, as the duties prescribed by civilityand custom were properly performed, he had no scruple about leaving herto herself--which was exactly what she most desired.

  One troublesome item remained, for no separate residence had beenprovided for the young pair, and Mr. Grey continued to occupy his oldapartments in the Palace of his royal stepfather. This was the lastplace where Lady Anne could have wished to be. To her uncle she felt nodislike, for he had always shown his best side to her, and her pure andsimple nature was incapable of entering into the darker features of hischaracter. Towards the Queen her feeling was a curious mixture ofaffection and misgiving. The soft caresses and tender words could notbe resented, nor even coldly received, yet they were unavoidablyprovocative of an under-current of doubt as concerned theirwhole-heartedness.

  "The lady did protest too much."

  With the children Lady Anne was at home, especially with that grave-eyedboy in whom much of her own temperament was reproduced.

  It had not been intended that the young pair should reside in thePalace. The King fully meant to provide them with a separate abode: butone of his practical rules being never to do to-day that which could beput off till to-morrow, the provision remained unmade, and day after dayfollowed its fellow to the silent chambers of the past.

  The chief difficulty of Lady Anne's married life concerned her father.If it had been scarcely possible to receive him at Coldharbour, to do itat Westminster was absolutely impossible. But it might be comparativelyeasy to meet elsewhere, could she ascertain where he might be met. TheDuke had as much difficulty in communicating with her as she with him.But

  "Under floods that are deepest Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way"--

  and here also love found it out, though it was not until three monthshad elapsed since the marriage, and their time for meeting was growingvery short. They met again only twice--once under the wing of the LadyDouglas, the Duke's half-sister; and once by appointment at a draper'sshop in Lombard Street. And each time the father saw with a pang thatthe end drew nearer, and that the likelihood was that the next meetingwould be in the Garden of God. He let her go very reluctantly the lasttime.

  "Somewhat tells me," he whispered to his sole friend and companion,William Sterys, "that this shall be the last time."

  "Dear my Lord," was the sympathising answer, "can you not look on to thenext time?"

  The Duke understood him. "_Domine, ne moreris!_" broke passionatelyfrom his lips.

  After that last parting the white rosebud withered quickly. She passedaway when the summer began, fading with the May-flowers. The last wordupon her lips was "Father!" Was she thinking of the earthly or theheavenly Father? Perhaps of both. She was safe now in the keeping ofthe Father of spirits: and the one earthly creature whom she loved wouldjoin her before long.

  The Duchess of Exeter showed little feeling on the death of herdaughter; scarcely more than Mr. Grey, who looked on an invalid wife asa nuisance which he felt glad to have removed. It had beenunfortunately necessary to marry her in order to obtain her vastinheritance; and it was an additional grievance that she left no childbehind her to give him a continued lien upon the estates. However,better luck next time. He could now secure a lady with good health andlively spirits, of a disposition akin to his own: and of course thelarger purse she had, the better. He soon found her, in the person ofCicely Bonvile, heiress to both parents, and a girl who suited his tasteinfinitely better than the heiress of Exeter had ever done. Decency wasrespected by a proper mourning of twelve months: and in the July of thefollowing year, Mr. Grey repaired his loss to his entire satisfaction.

  The mother was longer in repairing hers. She had considered herself amost ill-used woman, through the necessity for delaying her marriageuntil after her daughter's death. There were two reasons for this. TheDuchess knew that public opinion would cry shame upon her for marryingwhile her own and only child was standing face to face with death: andlittle as she cared for public opinion in general, in this instance shecould not afford to disregard it. Her marriage with Mr. St. Leger--amere squire in her brother's service--would at any time bring upon heras much obloquy as she cared to brave: and it was not desirable toincrease it by choosing such a time. Moreover, there remained a furtherand very awkward consideration, that King Edward might be irremediablyoffended: and while the adverse verdict of public opinion represented amere loss of character--an article not of very high value in the eyes ofthe Duchess--the adverse verdict of her royal brother might represent avery substantial loss of gold and silver, whic
h was a far more seriousmatter. She had never dared to unfold her intentions to Edward; nor didshe mean to do so until she had secured her prize. And as Mr. St.Leger, in losing his master's favour, would have lost even more than theroyal lady, he was quite as willing as herself to keep the projectsecret. However unwillingly or impatiently, she was accordingly bound towait.

  It seemed, therefore, as though no creature mourned for Anne Grey beyonda few of her dependants. The gulf had opened, and the fair, gentle,loving girl had disappeared from sight: and then it had closed again,and the world was dancing over it, and she was forgotten as though shehad not been. Frideswide Marston was one of those few who wore mourningfor her in their hearts. She had lived in her household only for threemonths, but she had been her immediate and favourite attendant, and hadlearned to love her. Now that phase of life was over, and Frideswidewas preparing to return home. There was a good deal of shopping to bedone first, for Frideswide meant to bring her trousseau from London; andaccompanied by one of Lady Anne's ushers, she went to and fro to WestChepe, where the mercers and haberdashers congregated; Guthrum's Lane(afterwards corrupted to Gutter Lane) where the goldsmiths dwelt;Lombard Street, the habitat of drapers; St. Mary Axe, where the furrierswere found; and Cordwainer Street, where the shoemakers lived. Ofcourse she visited Paternoster Row for a new rosary and copies of thePsalter and Gospels in Latin; purchased a pair of pattens in PattensLane; and, as the most acceptable present she could carry to herstepmother, bought a sugar-loaf, weighing twenty pounds, pricetwenty-six shillings and eightpence, from the druggist in Soper's Lane.A handsome piece of scarlet cloth--the most esteemed material for adress[#]--was also procured for Lady Margery, at a cost of eightshillings the yard: and twelve yards--a very handsome quantity--of blacksatin of Bruges, to make a gown for the Lady Idonia. For her father sheprovided a hat in the newest fashion, small, round, edged with fur, andadorned with a single ostrich feather, small but full, which wasfastened by a jewelled button. Ladies never wore feathers in thefifteenth century. The present for Agnes was a gold chain, which costtwo pounds; and--a far more precious article--a silver cramp-ring whichcost nothing. But it had been solemnly consecrated, as was done everyyear, by her on whom Frideswide looked as the rightful and only Queen ofEngland; and no one who wore it could possibly be troubled with cramp.For a ring which owed its value to the touch of "Dame Bessy Grey,"Frideswide would not have paid a halfpenny, nor would Agnes have deignedto soil her fingers by wearing it. What she should bring for Dorathiewas a matter of severe reflection to Frideswide. She would have liked aparrot: but parrots were not only rare and costly, but scarcely portablearticles. A mirror would not find favour with the authorities, aslikely to foster vanity in the immature mind of youth. Her final choicewas a silver girdle-clasp and a primer. The latter was not a book fromwhich to learn reading, as we should suppose, but rather a collection ofelegant extracts, chiefly of a religious cast. Primers varied in pricefrom about a shilling to fifteen shillings, according to size andbinding; and were put forth by authority, containing such things as wereconsidered proper for the people to know.

  [#] Writing about this time, Lady Fasten assures her husband that shewould prefer his return home to a new gown, "yea, though it were ofscarlet."

  Frideswide's purchases were at last complete, and her bags packed.Comparatively few boxes were used, when all luggage had to be carried onthe backs of mules or galloways. She was to leave London on the firstof June, escorted as far as St. Albans by one of her late Lady's ushers.Here she was pretty sure to fall in with a train of pilgrims to Newarkor Whitby, or possibly with a convoy of merchants going to York. On thelast evening, it occurred to her that she might as well take with her afew ells of fringe to trim the dresses, as they would pack in no greatcompass, and would doubtless be of better quality than such as couldeasily be procured at Lovell Tower. Calling the usher to attend her, shewent out to the nearest mercer's in West Chepe. The fringe was soonbought, and she was turning homewards, when her attention was roused bya young man who kept walking close behind them. Taking the bull by thehorns, Frideswide said at once,--

  "Would you have speech of us, Master?"

  "If your name be Marston, that would I," was the answer: "but pray yougo a little farther, for we shall come anon to a dark passage wherethere is more conveniency for talk."

  Guessing in an instant that the young man was entrusted with somemessage for her ear only, Frideswide followed his directions, when hesaid,--

  "Mistress, there is one would speak with you ere you leave London--onethat you knew of old time."

  "Man or woman?"

  "Man."

  "What manner of man?" Frideswide was cautious.

  "A cresset-bearer."

  No further explanation was required. The Duke of Exeter wished for aninterview.

  "Go to: where shall it be?"

  "At my house, an' it like you."

  "May it be done this even? for I should set forth on my journey bymorning light."

  "It can be done this minute, an' you will come with me."

  "Is it far?--and who be you?"

  "I am a parchment-maker, of Smithfield, and a Goose by name and nature,"said the young man with a smile.

  "By name, may-be," replied Frideswide, with an answering smile:"methinks scarce by nature, else had not your master and mine trustedyou with such an errand. But have you no token for me?"

  "Ay, one of gold forged in the King's mint.--'_Alle thingis, and in allethingis, Crist_.'"

  There could be no further question to a Lollard mind of thetrustworthiness of the Duke's messenger. Frideswide came out of thedark passage, and dismissed her usher, giving him her parcels to takeback with him.

  "This worthy master will see me home, and I have ado with him first,"she said. "Now, pray you, Master Goose, if your name be so, lead on."

  Silently Frideswide followed her guide up to Aldersgate, through LittleBritain,--where of old time stood the town mansion of the Counts ofBretagne, who through several centuries were Earls of Richmond--acrossSmithfield, and paused before a small house at the north-west corner ofthat open space. Mr. Goose unlocked the door by a key from his pocket,and led Frideswide up a very narrow staircase, into a small room fittedas a sitting-room. Leaving her there, he disappeared for a moment; andthe next minute, a stately step crossed the chamber, and the Duke stoodbefore her.

  It was rather more than two years since they had met, but Frideswide wasunprepared to find him so sadly changed. He looked rather as if twentyyears than two had passed over him. Yet only in his forty-fourth year,he had the appearance of broken-down, premature old age: and every toneof his voice was like a moan of pain.

  "Mistress Frideswide, I have heard, in this my retreat, that which hathbroken mine heart. Tell me, is it true?"

  Frideswide did not ask what he meant. She knew that only too well.

  "My Lord, it is true indeed. Our sweet young Lady went her way to God,on Sunday se'nnight in the even."

  "On whose soul Jesu have mercy!" broke almost mechanically from the lipsof the desolate father.

  "Amen!" responded Frideswide.

  "Was he with her?" demanded the Duke almost fiercely. He had neitheraffection nor respect for "Tom Grey," as his Lancastrian instinctscontemptuously termed him.

  "Master Grey? No."

  Frideswide did not tell the Duke, though she knew it, that the younggentleman in question was playing bowls at Lambeth.

  "My Lady her mother was, I count?"

  Frideswide was thankful that she could truthfully say that the Duchesshad been in her daughter's apartments on the night of her death. Shehad just looked in for ten minutes. She would have been glad to say nomore: but the Duke's queries were persistent. He put one after anothertill he knew all she could tell him: and then, folding his arms upon thetable, he laid his head upon them, and a low moan of bitter pain brokefrom him.

  For some minutes there was dead silence in the little chamber. Atlength the Duke spoke.

&nbs
p; "If only a man might die when he would! The sun is gone down, and therebe no stars for me."

  "Nay, my gracious Lord, I cry you mercy!" said Frideswide gently. "Thesun is but gone behind a cloud, for our Lord Jesu Christ is the sun ofHis people. It is the star which has set. The sun is there asaforetime."

  "Then the cloud is sore thick, for I see no light."

  "Not now, my Lord. It will break forth again."

  "Is that so sure?" said the Duke, mournfully. "Ah, you are young andhopeful; to you the birds always chant 'To-morrow.' But I--I am a manold before his time, and hope is gone from me."

  "Christ is not, my Lord."

  "Mistress Frideswide," was the earnest answer, "wit you what it is tostretch forth numb hands into the darkness, and not find them taken?--tofeel none other hands meeting yours?"

  "So long as the numbness is but in mine hands, my Lord, I know not thatit signifieth much. They may be taken, yet be too numb to feel it.Truly, I am but a poor maid and a young, and of little wit: some doctorof the Church could aid your Lordship, but not I. Yet if I might speakone word, it should be,--dear my Lord, if our Lord have gripped hold ofyour Lordship, will it matter whether your hands have hold of Him or no?They be safe borne, methinks, whom Christ carrieth."

  "Yet if one feel not the carrying--only a sense of falling down, down,into a pit whereto is no bottom"----

  "My gracious Lord, can that be if you have trusted our Lord to carryyou? Shall your feeling be put in enmity to His word? Have you come toHim? for if so, you give Him the lie to say He hath cast you out."

  The Duke rose. "My maid," he said, "there be times when it looks tomine eyes as though mine whole life had been but one mighty blunder, andone great sin."

  "Be it so, my Lord. Is Christ strong enough to bear it?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Is He reluctant to bear it?"

  "I dare not say so much."

  "Then, my Lord, what wait you for?"

  "I have no strength to give it to Him."

  "Have you any need? If a burden lay at my feet that I could not lift,and my brother stood by, think you I should tarry to ask him to bear itfor me till I could lift it up and give it to him? Is He that carriedour sins away upon His cross become so weak that He cannot bear oursorrows now? If He can hold heaven and earth, verily He can hold youand me."

  "Amen!" said the Duke softly. "Mistress Frideswide, we may never seteyes again each on other: and you and your sister have been true friendsto me. Pray you, do me so much pleasure as to wear this gold chain formy sake. I would I had a better gift to mine hand, but a man that hathspent half his life in exile, and hath his lands proscribed, is not hethat can make rich gifts."

  "My Lord, a far smaller matter should be more than enough to pleasureyour handmaid. I thank your good Lordship right heartily."

  "And what shall I send unto Mistress Annis?" said the Duke thoughtfully,as he turned over some dozen of jewels and trinkets, which were all nowleft to him of his once splendid fortune. "I would not by my good-willshe were had in oblivion, for she was very good unto me, more than onceor twice. What say you, Mistress Frideswide, should like her best ofthese?"

  Frideswide glanced rapidly over the articles indicated.

  "I am somewhat afeared to pick and choose, under your Lordship'sallowance: for that which may seem the least precious matter unto astranger, may be the dearest thing in all the treasure-house to him thatought[#] it."

  [#] Owned.

  "Nay, go to," replied the Duke. "There is nought dear to me now, save aring my Nan once gave me--and I put not that on my list of tokens."[#]

  [#] Gifts.

  Thus invited, Frideswide picked out a plain silver ring, set with thebadge of the fiery cresset in minute rubies. "This, methinks, shouldlike her, if your Lordship set no store thereby."

  "Certes, none at all: yet this is poor matter."

  "It is enough, my gracious Lord, and I thank you right heartily for mysister."

  "Tell her, I pray you, Mistress Frideswide, that the last words we spakeeach to other be the parting message of love[#] that I shall sendher,--and may God give me to find it true for myself, as I pray she mayfor her."

  [#] Then a word used generally in the sense of friendship or kindliness.

  "What were they, an' it like your Lordship?"

  "They were the words I told Jack Goose to give you as token of histrustworthiness, the which I thought should bring quickly one of ourdoctrine. '_Alle thingis, and in all thingis, Crist_.'"

  "May you so find it, my gracious Lord!"

  The Duke gave her his hand at parting--an unusual condescension from hisposition to hers. Frideswide bent low, and kissed the hand of him whomshe was no longer to call master, and whose face she would never see anymore.

  John Goose took her home with a lantern. As they threaded their wayalong St. Martin's Lane, which led from Aldersgate to St. Paul'sChurchyard, he said to her,--

  "Pray you, my mistress, is aught heard at this time of any ado againstthem of our doctrine?"

  "In good sooth I trust not, Master Goose," was the reply. "I havenought heard of any such matter. Eh, good lack! it should be hard forsome to be staunch, if so were!"

  "I count it should be hard to them that had it to do for themselves,"said John Goose.

  "How mean you, my master?"

  "Look you, I told you afore I was a Goose by name and nature," said theyouth with a merry laugh. "So being, I know well I have no wits to copewith my learned masters the doctors of the Church. Herein I must needsbetake me wholly unto my Master. He will give me the endurance, if Hesend me the need to endure. And that which cometh down from Heaven islike to be better than aught a man hath of his own."

  "Then look you for troubles, Master Goose?"

  "I look for nought, Mistress. My Master doth the work for me, and Itake mine ease. So merry is Christ's service."

  "It should be little ease that you should take at the stake, methinks,"said Frideswide with a shake of her head. "Verily, methinks it werepast all endurance."

  "For Him, or for me?" significantly asked John Goose.

  "It were over hard for you," said Frideswide to the second question,meeting the first with a deprecatory smile.

  "Nay, my Mistress. The enduring was with Him that bare the wrath of Godfor me: surely not with me that do but bear a few earthly pains for Him.At the least, if it should please Him to call me to that honour."

  "Would you covet it, Master Goose?"

  "Mistress, I am Christ's servant. Is it for the servant to admonish theMaster of the work whereunto He shall set him?"

  "But the suffering should be your own!"

  "Nay! When I bid my journeyman get a-work, he doth it at my charges,not his own."

  "Yet you must needs feel it, Master Goose?"

  They had reached the gate of Coldharbour. John Goose swung the lanterninto his left hand, and unlatched the outer gate for Frideswide, callingfor the porter as he did so.

  "Mistress, if our dear Lord list to have me to His presence without anhair of mine head singed, think you He could compass it, or no?"

  "Most certainly!"

  "Farewell; and God be with you!"

  And the smile with which he took leave of her, she remembered later.

  Early the next morning, Frideswide left Coldharbour and London: and sheleft them readily enough. Her sojourn in the south had been productiveof any thing rather than pleasure. Now she was journeying home to allshe loved; and of course hope told a flattering tale, and she expectedto live happily ever after her arrival at Lovell Tower. Her journey waspleasant and prosperous: and she reached York on the evening of theeighth of June, in company with a party of whom one portion were boundfor that city, and another for Beverley Minster.

  As Frideswide entered the hotel at York, to her surprise she found anold friend leaning against the sidepost of the door.

  "Why, Mistress Marston, is it you?" said he, starting up.

  "Why, Master Strangeways! whence
came you?"

  "Truly, at the heels of my good Lady, that is but now out of BeverleySanctuary, and goeth northward under convoy of Sir James Tyrell."

  "Whither?"

  "That shall we see when we be there," returned Mr. Strangeways,jovially, as though such a journey were the pleasantest amusement in theworld.

  "Is it of the King's Grace's pleasure?"

  "Who is the King's Grace?" returned Mr. Strangeways, putting his handsin his pockets, with as little concern about possible spies or enemiesas though he had lived in the nineteenth century.

  "'When we be at Rome, we do as Rome doth,'" quoted Frideswide, with asmile. Not only had her ears become accustomed to the term as appliedto Edward, but, like many Lancastrians, she considered that the regalright had now become vested in the House of York. Mr. PhilipStrangeways, on the contrary, held politics of so very red a dye thatthe young Earl of Richmond was his King. "You know, Master Philip,"concluded she.

  "I know more than I profit by, mayhap. Howbeit, your question tarriethhis answer. Nay, 'tis not Merry Ned this time. 'Tis Crookback Dickon.His soul is not as straight as his body. Now I marvel," said Mr.Strangeways, reflectively, "if that companion reckoneth he is going toHeaven. I'll lay you a broad shilling he so doth."

  "What did he, my Master?"

  "Kicked my Lady up into Yorkshire, when she fled to that herdearworthy[#] son, and begged him of his protection. And ne'er aplack[#] in her pocket withal. I do pray the blessed saints to give himhis deserts, and I rather count they will."

  [#] Beloved.

  [#] Coin.

  "Dear heart! but sure he would not thus evil entreat his ownmother-in-law?"

  This innocent query seemed to cause Mr. Philip Strangewaysinextinguishable amusement.

  "Be men so fond of their mothers-in-law?" said he. "He is, take my wordfor it: for both he and his brother have set down the foot that never apenny shall my old Lady finger that their fingers can keep from her.She hath scarce more gowns than backs, nor more hoods than heads; and asto her botews,[#] I took them myself to the cobbler this morrow to bepatched. Be thankful, Mistress Marston, that you have lighted on yourfeet like a cat, and are well out of an ill service."

  [#] Boots.

  "Eh, dear heart! but my poor Lady--I am sorry for her!"

  "So am I," said Philip, suddenly dropping his mask of light nonchalance,and becoming another man. "So am I, Mistress Marston: and trust me, Iam worser than sorry for the Lady Anne, that is wed against her will andallowing to the man she hated most. Eh, well! God be lauded in all Hisworks!"

  And Philip turned into the inn, without vouchsafing any explanation ofthe manner in which he meant his words to be taken.

  His news was only too true. The poor Countess of Warwick, the richestheiress in England, had been stripped of every penny of her vastinheritance by the rapacious greed of her own sons-in-law. Their crueland wicked deed was formally sanctioned by Act of Parliament about ayear later--May 9th, 1474--by which statute it was decreed that GeorgeDuke of Clarence and Isabel his wife, and Richard Duke of Gloucester andAnne his wife, were to have and hold all possessions of the saidCountess "as if she were naturally dede, and the said Countess is to bebarrable, barred, and excluded as well of all jointours, dower, actions,executions, right, title, and interesse, of, in, and for all honours,lordships, castles, manors, etc., as were at any time the said Earl'sher husband:" and "the said dukes and their said wives may makepartition of all the premisses."[#] More sweeping language couldscarcely be. No notice was taken of poor Lady Warwick's piteousallegation of "noon offence by her doon," nor of her fervent assurancethat she had "duly kept her fidelity and ligeance, and obeyed the King'scommandments." Naboth's title to his vineyard, even though Divine, wasaccounted of small matter, so long as King Ahab wanted it for a gardenof herbs.

  [#] Patent Roll, 14 Edw. IV.

  How Lady Warwick lived through the next twelve years is not recorded.We only know that she had nothing to live on. Perhaps, like Warwick'ssister, his widow kept herself alive by means of her needle, deemingherself happy when she could buy a few yards of serge for a new dress,while her daughters were decked with pearls and diamonds, and trailedvelvet and ermine trains over palace floors. One of the daughters atleast was not to blame. The Duchess Anne of Gloucester was as helplessin her palace as her destitute mother in her northern refuge.Gloucester kept her in watch and ward as closely as if she had been hisprisoner, which in fact she was: for the first three years of her hatedmarriage were spent in perpetual efforts to escape its cruel toils. TheAct of Parliament just quoted contains the significant entry that if adivorce shall take place between Gloucester and Anne, he shallnevertheless continue to enjoy her property as if she were still hiswife, so long as he "doo his effectuell diligence and continuell deuoirby all conuenient and laufull meanes to be lawfully maried to the saidAnne." No words could have shown more plainly that the caged bird wasconstantly working at the fastenings of the cage, and that the jailerwas afraid lest it should compass its end some time.

  Less than this can be said for Isabel of Clarence. She was in nodurance, and her influence over her husband was great. She was, infact, the only person who was permanently able to do any thing withClarence. It is difficult to believe that if she had chosen to exertherself, some small pension at least--which would have made all thedifference between comfort and care--should not have been conferred onher lonely and destitute mother. But she did it not. Are we justifiedin assuming that it was by more than fortuitous coincidence or theaction of sanitary laws, that her days were not long in the land?

  "God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he alsoreap."