*CHAPTER VIII.*
*THE END OF A WEDDING-DAY*
"Aye, there's a blank at my right hand That ne'er can be made up to me." --HOGG.
"And how goes it with the fair Grisacres, Sellinger?"
The question was asked by King Edward IV., who was lounging in anattitude of lazy ease on a "day-bed," the ancestor of the modern sofa.His Majesty's life was spent in alternations between taking his ease inthe very easiest of ways, and fits of fiery bravery when occasion calledthem forth. The gentleman addressed was Master Thomas St. Leger, asquire of the body, to whom Edward had granted the marriage of JaneGrisacres, one of the chamberers of his sister of Exeter. This meantthat the young lady was an heiress, and that the gentleman was atliberty either to marry her himself, or to make merchandise of her tosome other person. The inclinations of the lady were not considered.Her sole opportunity, therefore, if she did not admire her master, layin making herself so extremely disagreeable to him that he might preferto sell her.
"I humbly thank your Highness, all goes rarely well," replied St. Leger,with a courtesy.
St. Leger was a good-looking man of some five and twenty years, withlight hair, which, in accordance with fashion, he wore very long, andcut quite straight all round.
"That is well. I would fain do thee some grace for thy service," saidEdward, rising, and calling another of his squires to attend him, helounged out of the room.
King Edward IV. was the handsomest man of his age. "A more beautifulperson," says Comines, "never did mine eyes behold." He was verytall,--six feet three inches--of extremely fair complexion, light brownhair, and blue eyes--true Plantagenet colours: but he grew corpulent inhis later years--a blemish which at this time had not begun to appear.Like most persons at that period, he wore his hair very long, butneither beard, whiskers, nor moustache.
"What though the face be fair, What though the eye be bright, What though the rare and flowing hair Vie with the rich sunlight,-- If the soul which of all should the fairest be, If the soul which must last through eternity Be a dark and unholy thing?"
And certainly, in Edward's case, the beauty of the outward man was veryfar from corresponding with the inner man of the heart.
A rather peculiar smile curled the lip of the squire after the King'sdeparture.
"His Highness would fain do me some grace--would he so?" he inquiredhalf aloud, and to all appearance addressing himself to a fly which wasmarching up the diamond-shaped panes of the window. "What should hesay, trow, an' he wist of the grace which another thinks to do me?"
The same evening saw Mr. St. Leger a visitor at Coldharbour, for thepurpose of carrying on that wooing which was now beginning to be thoughtdecorous even in these cases where the lady was not free torefuse--though, of course, capable of omission if preferred. Half anhour he spent with Mistress Jane Grisacres in the hall--a half-hourwhich was a weary weight to him, and a moment of enchantment to her,for--alas for poor Jane Grisacres!--she loved the handsome suitor whocared so little about her. This business well over, Mr. St. Legerslipped out of the hall, and passed lightly up a spiral staircase, to dohis real wooing in another chamber, to a lady who had double the beauty,and ten times the position, but not one per cent. of the heart, of poorJane Grisacres.
Men and women do not leap, but grow, into monsters of iniquity.Dionysius the Tyrant, Pope Alexander the Sixth, Judge Jeffries, andRobespierre, were all innocent babies once. The heart not yet hardenedin sin shrinks back from the first touch of what it recognises as evil,with the cry, "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?"[#]
[#] These words have passed into an English proverb, and are here usedin their current sense: but it should be remembered that in that sensethey are not a Scriptural quotation, the key-note word being omittedfrom the sentence. Hazael really said, "Thy servant the dog, shall he dothis great thing?" In other words, Is so mean a creature as I to attainto so high a position as you intimate? His feeling, therefore, was notrighteous indignation, but rather rapturous astonishment.
But when the evil is not recognised, how then? There is no shrinkingfrom Satan when he comes to us clad in the robes of an angel of light.One of the most skilful touches of the wonderful tinker is that passagewhere Christian and Hopeful admit that they were forewarned to beware ofthe Flatterer. "But we did not imagine (said they) that this fine-spokenman had been he."
When the Lady Anne of York, in her innocent girlhood, scarcely more thana child, stood at the altar with Henry Duke of Exeter, she wouldprobably have repulsed with indignant horror the prophet who should havetold her that ere twenty years were over, she would fling overboard,careless what fate he met, the husband who would have loved her if shehad given him leave, for the sake of a young man who was merelyattracted by her beauty, rank, and wealth. She was ready to do it now.Beginning by simply amusing herself with the young squire, thenregarding him as a friend, she had reached a point at which she waswilling to abnegate rank, and sacrifice even her hoarded wealth, soonerthan part with him. The matter was easily managed. A Princess wouldfind it no hard matter to obtain a divorce. Of course the King must beamused with some other reason than the true one, as he might not fancy amarriage between his sister and his servant. But it was easy enough totake him in, by a little virtuous indignation about the wickedLancastrian proclivities of the Duke, which made it utterlyimpracticable for the Duchess ever to bear him again. Edward's ownconstancy was not so remarkable that he could afford to be severe uponAnne.
And what of the delicate maiden whose one tie to life was that fatherwho was thus to be cast away and left to his fate? Her mother did notfind it convenient to consider her. She was to be married to ThomasGrey. If she did not like him, worse luck! What more could be said?She must put up with her fate, as others had done before her.
It did, however, strike the Duchess that it might be as well to get herdaughter's marriage over before her own. The divorce could take placeany time--the sooner the better. She had already induced her royalbrother to make sundry small grants of minor offices and inexpensivemanors to St. Leger: and His Majesty was just now very busy--partlyoccupied in settling political difficulties, and partly in recruitinghis recent heavy exertions. Among the former were a quantity of pardonsto Lancastrians who had submitted themselves--among whom was a mercer ofLondon, by name William Caxton, whose thoughts were busy on the settingup of that quiet little printing-press at Westminster which was torevolutionise the world; the removal of Clarence from Court (where hewas eternally quarrelling with Gloucester) by creating him Viceroy ofIreland; the re-arrest of Archbishop Neville, under cover of a friendlyvisit from the King, who gleefully appropriated his L20,000 worth ofpersonalty, and broke up his mitre to make a crown for himself. Edwardwas still worried on the subject of Richmond, whom he was trying hard toinduce to come to England, alleging as his sole object the desire torestore his dear young kinsman to his forfeited inheritance: but theDuke of Burgundy--with whom Richmond had now taken refuge--at the lastmoment stopped the negotiations, on hearing from the proverbial littlebird that what Edward really wanted with his dear young kinsman was toshow him the same civility which Herod did to John the Baptist. KingEdward's recourse, under these accumulated annoyances, for rest andrefreshment, was as usual to a sylvan recreation which was a mixture ofpicnic and hunting tour, gorgeous pavilions being pitched for thatgalaxy of Court ladies without whom life would in his eyes have been ahowling wilderness.
The Duchess of Exeter and her daughter were among the royal guests. Theflirtation between the former and Mr. St. Leger was thereby considerablypromoted: while the aversion of the Lady Anne for Mr. Thomas Grey wasvery far from lessened. The Duchess, however, pushed on the settlementsand preparations: and soon after the King's return to Westminster, bothevents were ready to happen. The divorce came first. On the twelfth ofNovember, 1472, the marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Exeter wasdissolved by Papal bull: and in the followi
ng January, the Lady Anne deHoland was made to give her hand--_not_ with her heart in it--to theeldest son of Queen Elizabeth.
On the evening before this sacrifice was offered at the shrine ofpolitics and propriety, the Lady Anne, and several of her mother'schamberers, were gathered at Coldharbour. The bride had been trying onher wedding-dress, which Jane Grisacres and Marion Rothwell werecarefully folding up. It was of rich crimson velvet, heavily furred withermine, and was almost too great a weight for the slight shoulders whichdrooped beneath it. Suddenly there was an exclamation from Jane.
"Help us, holy Mary! If I have not lost my locket!"
"Dear heart!" responded Marion. "Look and see if it have not catched inmy Lady's gown."
The search was made, but without success.
"Woe is me! I had liefer have lost all mine having rather than yonlocket," lamented Jane.
"I know wherefore," suggested the teazing Tamzine, in that tantalisingstyle which is always meant to provoke a request for furtherexplanation: and Marion, who was not devoid of curiosity, responded asTamzine intended she should.
"Wherefore? The saints be about us! Had she not yon locket for a tokenof Master Sellinger? _I_ know!" announced Miss Thomasine, in a tonewhich called the colour into Jane's face.
The last-named young lady was still hunting for her lost treasure, inlikely and unlikely places, with a running accompaniment of remarksaddressed to nobody, such as are usual in similar cases.
"I am assured I put it on this morrow!--Dear, dear, but to think ofit!--Where can it be?--I have looked every whither!--Had ever poor maidsuch an ill loss?"
"It had his hair in it, I warrant you," said Marion, notill-naturedly--she was not an ill-natured girl--but with that spice ofenjoyable excitement at the least adventure or misadventure, which gaveRochefoucauld the occasion to observe that there is somethingexhilarating in the misfortunes of our friends.
"Not it, forsooth!" said Tamzine. "Master Sellinger is not he thatshould lay violent hands of his greatest treasure to please a woman."
"Is his hair his greatest treasure?" laughed Marion.
"Trust me!" was Tamzine's sententious response. "Have you ne'er beheldhim shake it with yon delicate turn of his head that he hath? Why, hebeareth it a good inch longer than any other in the Court."
"Good lack! the man is a very popinjay,"[#] said Marion. "He might be amaid, with his pouncet-box and his pomanders."[#]
[#] Parrot.
[#] The pomander, now becoming old-fashioned, was a ball ofsweet-scented drugs enclosed in a network of metal, which was held inthe warm hand to call out its fragrance: the pouncet box had taken itsplace, and was filled with sweet powder.
"And his little mirror stuck of a little poke[#] of his doublet--haveyou ne'er watched him pull it forth when he counted him unseen?"
[#] Pocket is the diminutive of poke.
"Nay, verily! but doth he so? That passeth!"[#]
[#] Surpasses belief.
"Use your eyes," said Tamzine. "Jane, sweet chuck, give up searchingfor a needle of a bottle of hay. The cat hath it, I'll be bound, orsome animal belike."
In which Miss Tamzine was not so far wrong, seeing that the missingarticle lay in her own pocket.
"Cats eat no lockets, trow," said Marion.
"Nay, but I cannot," answered Jane in a distressed voice. "I had neveryet heavier loss in all my life."
"Good sooth, your life must have been a merry one," said Tamzine.
"I have lost father and mother," added Marion. "Somewhat passing alocket, belike."
"I have lost worser than that," said the cynical Tamzine, "for I hadeleven hundred pound put out to usury, and he that had it paid me ne'era plack."
"Dear heart! how came that?" said Marion.
"Father Nokes said it came of the temptation of Satan, and the evilnessof men's hearts," was the demure reply of Tamzine.
"What was your worst loss, Agnes?" asked Marion.
Agnes had to think. "I scarce can tell," said she. "I were o'er youngwhen my mother died to feel any loss."
"What happy maids be ye!" came softly from Lady Anne, who had listenedhitherto without joining. "Dear damsels, I pray you to thank God thatthe worsest loss ye know is the loss of death."
"Can there be a worser, Madam?"
"Aye, Marion, there be losses in life far wofuller."
"Your Ladyship scarce speaks from your own knowledge, methinks."
"Aye, but I do!" answered the bride sadly. "We may lose our living, in asorer fashion than our dead. The dead can go no further from us thanthey be: and the day cometh when we shall go to them. But the livingmay go further away from us till they never come back again: aye, andworser--for they may go further and further from God till they nevercome back to Him. And who shall measure the loss of a lost life?--whoshall measure the loss of a lost soul?"
"Cheery talk for a bride of her wedding-eve!" muttered Marion, not forLady Anne to hear.
Nor did she hear it. She sat by the table, resting her head upon herhand, and her thoughts evidently far away. Probably they were either onthe life that lay before her, or on the father whom she might never seeagain.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed poor Jane, standing up from the cramped position inwhich she had been hunting for the missing locket. "I must give it uptill daylight come. Our sweet Lady grant it be not truly lost!"
"Not a bit of it," said Tamzine peremptorily: and reasonably enough,since she knew where it was.
"I will help you look for it to-morrow," said Agnes kindly.
"Truly, I am beholden to you," replied Jane. "I would give a goldhalf-angel to know where it were."
"Give it me," said Tamzine, holding out her hand. "I am going to-morroweven to see the White Witch of Bermondsey."
"Wait and see if the locket be found afore the even," wisely suggestedMarion.
"Won't be," said Tamzine.
Jane, whose chief failing was being too easily led, paid over the fiveshillings to Tamzine without taking Marion's advice.
"We must be early abed, maids," said Lady Anne, rising, with a wearyair. "We must needs be stirring early, and 'tis now so late the nightshall not be long."
She turned away from them, to go to her own chamber, with a hollow coughwhich smote painfully on Agnes Marston's heart.
"Not long!" she said to herself, in another sense. "No, dear, gentle,suffering maiden--the night will not be long!"
The next morning rose brilliantly clear, and cruelly cold. There was akeen frost, and a keener east wind: but it was _de rigueur_ that thebride must wear no covering on her head except a coronal of gems. Shebore herself royally, with no sign of the outward sufferings which wereconsuming her life, any more than of the inward anguish which wasgnawing at her heart. The marriage took place at Greenwich Palace,after a freezing voyage: and the bride was given away by her royaluncle. All the chamberers of course were present, and so were thepeople of England, represented by as many as could squeeze into thePalace chapel. Men and women of all ranks were there: but only twopairs of eyes noticed one man, muffled in a thick cloak as if he feltthe cold, who stood back in the furthest corner. Agnes thought shecould guess who he was; and she contrived to leave the chapel by thedoor close to which he stood. As she passed him in the crush, the Dukeslipped a scrap of paper into her hand, with a significant look. Agneshid it hastily, for it was not for a long time that she dared to examineit. There was a grand banquet to be gone through, and a series ofdances and games in the Palace hall; and hours were over before Agnescould without notice slip away from the dancers, and in the recess of awindow where no eyes saw her, unfold the Duke's missive.
"I would fain speak with you," it ran. "Dare you come alone to thewaterside, without the little postern, as soon as the dark falleth?Risk nothing: but if you can come, you shall find me there."
It was growing dusk already. Agnes listened for a moment to the soundsof mirth which came surging from the hall. No one would miss her there.She tied a hood over her head, and ra
n down to the little postern. Trueto his appointment, the Duke was walking slowly up and down, muffled inhis cloak.
"May Christ bless you, my good damsel!" he said warmly, as Agnes madeher appearance. "I do heartily trust that no ill shall hap to you forthis grace. Now tell me quickly, for I would not keep you to yourharm--what manner of man is this Master Grey? Since he were babe have Inever seen him. What is in him?--what hath he done?"
Ah, Agnes knew of one thing he had done, which so far as in her lay mustbe kept from the ears of Anne's father for ever. Could she look up intothose mournful, longing eyes, and tell him that the man into whose handshis one darling had fallen was one of the murderers of Prince Edward?She cast her eyes downwards, and played nervously with her chatelaine.
"Methinks, my gracious Lord, not much hath been yet known of the younggentleman."
"Perchance, not much," answered the Duke quietly: "yet something, mygentle maid, which you would fain not tell me."
Agnes took refuge in the smaller of the two evil actions of which sheknew Grey to be guilty. The smaller--yet showing, as straws show howthe wind blows, that he was capable of the greater.
"I have seen him not o'er good to his dog," said she. "But I know notmuch of his conditions."
The Duke sighed. "Doth my little maid love him?" he asked. "Was shewilling to wed with him?"
It was an unusual idea for that time, and would scarcely have been askedbut by an exceptionally tender-hearted parent. Agnes shook her head.
"O my darling, my darling! My little white dove!"
"My Lord," said Agnes tremulously, "it will not be for long."
"I know it. And then--I shall have nothing left to live for."
Agnes Marston was one of those shy, undemonstrative, yet deeply-feelingnatures, to whom talking of any thing they feel deeply is all butimpossible. The fervent souls who wear their hearts upon their sleevesnever comprehend a nature like this. They always think them cold,impassive, unfeeling. Yet such have shown themselves capable of martyrdeath: and they beyond all others can live the martyr life.[#] The mostsuffering life, and the most saintly, is the life that has no outletexcept towards God.
[#] I would fain take this opportunity of protesting against a verycommon misapprehension (as it appears to me) of a passage of Scripture,by which hearts have been made sad which I believe God would not havemade sad. How often the fervent nature condemns the shy and silent with"Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." If the lattercannot speak, it is assumed, it is because it cannot feel, or is onlyhalf-hearted; if love be in your heart, it must come out of your lips:Christ says so! But does Christ say so? Let the context be carefullyexamined, and it will be found that Christ says, not that whatever isfelt in the heart will come out of the mouth--but that whatever doescome out of the mouth must first have originated in the heart. Iventure to submit that this passage does not deal with thecounter-proposition at all: and that between the two there is as muchdifference as between saying all one thinks, and meaning all one says.
As she stood there by the river, listening to the soft lapping of thewater against the bank, Agnes felt as though she could have given anything to comfort that desolate man. Yet what could she say that mightcomfort him? To quote God's Word, for a woman, and especially inEnglish, would put herself in jeopardy: but she did not mind that, if itwould do him any good. Agnes did not realise that the Duke had beeneducated by a Lollard stepmother, herself the daughter of a martyr ofJesus Christ.
"'_Youre liif is hidde with Crist in God_.'" She made the quotationvery tremblingly. Amazed indeed she was at the style of its reception.The Duke's hand fell softly on her head as if in blessing, and--mostastonishing of all--the quotation went on.
"'_For whanne Crist schal apere youre liif, thanne also ye schuln aperewith him in glorie... Where is not male and female, ... larlarus andscita, bonde man and fre man; but alle thingis and in alle thingisCrist_.' I thank you, heartily, my good maid. Aye, and methinks itrunneth next,--'_As the Lord forgaf to you, so also ye_.' It is well.I count that shall last us both for this little while. '_Alle thingisand in alle thingis, Crist_.'"
Agnes was silent. She had taken a text: if her hearer would preach thesermon to himself, it was far better than any comment on her part.
"I scarce looked to find one of that sort in Coldharbour now," said theDuke, with a smile which made him but look the sadder. "But you musthave a care, Mistress Agnes. We be no longer under King Henry, thatwould not see a Christian man nor woman ill-usen. Yet I would fain,whenso you find safe chance, that you should speak such words to mylittle maid as you have spoken to me to-night. She cannot remember hergrandmother, that should have learned them to her, as she did to me."
"My gracious Lord, the Lady Anne wist thereof far more and better thanI."
The light came to the Duke's eyes, for the first time that sorrowfulnight.
"Then we shall meet again," he said. "Not long--no, not long! God keepyou, Mistress Agnes, and give you, for this little while,--give all ofus--to have, '_alle thingis and in alle thingis, Crist_.'"
Once more, light and warm, his hand rested on her head: and the nextmoment he was gone. She stood still and silent, with the feeling ofthat hand upon her head--of that last word in her ear. It was as ifChrist Himself had blessed her. A sense of deep peace sank into AgnesMarston's heart. The little while to be spent on this side the coldriver seemed so very little, and the golden gates of Paradise so verynear. She would never forget those words--never forget thattone--"_alle thingis, and in alle thingis, Crist_."
"Agnes! Agnes Marston! Where art, hussy? Dost look for thy betters towaste their breath a-bawling of thee? Art any better than thou shouldstbe, a-chattering to strange men at postern doors? Come in this minute,for shame of thy face, and tell me who is thy gallant. Somepenny-go-quick pot-loving companion, I'll be bound. Come hither, Isay!"
Oh, what a revulsion it was! But Agnes did not hesitate a moment. Herconscience was clean as snow. She ran up the spiral staircase, andfound herself in the awful, because angry, presence of the Mistress ofthe Household, Lady Elizabeth Darcy.
"Come up to the light, and let me look at thee!"
Agnes stood the scrutiny without flinching.
"Now then--with whom wert thou talking yonder?"
"Please it you, Madam, with a gentleman whose daughter is a maid of mycognisance, and he, knowing the same, did desire to have some speech ofme touching her."
"Yonder's a jolly hearing! Get thy tale up better another time.Wherefore should such meet thee after dark, behind posterns? He shouldhave come up to the hall, and desired speech of thee like an honest man.Now then, tell me another story, and let it be the true one, this time."
"Madam, I have spoken truth. An' I tell your Ladyship any other tale,it must needs be false."
The two pairs of eyes met, and the Lady Elizabeth's fell first.
"Holy Mary! but thou art a brazen piece of goods as ever I saw! Comewith me to thy Lady. She must be told of this."
Agnes followed silently. Wild horses should not drag that secret fromher keeping.
The Duchess of Exeter--who had just divorced her own husband in order tomarry another man--was inexpressibly horrified at the moral turpitude ofAgnes Marston. Was she to allow of such scandals in her house? No,indeed! The only atonement that Agnes could make was to declare thenand there the name and business of her companion. The Duchess wasdoubtful whether, after any disclosures or expressions of penitence, shewould be justified in overlooking the matter.
Agnes kept silence. She had repeated her explanation, and she held toit as the simple truth: but not another word would she utter.
"Wilt not even say thou art sorry?" demanded Lady Darcy, who, now thatthe Duchess had taken up the matter so warmly, was herself cooling down.
Sorry! would she ever be sorry, all her life long, for what had passedin those few minutes?
"No, Madam. I am not sorry."
"Nor ashamed?"
/> "Nor ashamed, in any wise." And Agnes lifted her clear, honest eyes toher examiners.
"Verily, this passes!" cried the Duchess. "Dost look to tarry anylonger in mine house, thou good-for-nought?"
"At your pleasure, Madam."
"Then thou mayest write to my Lord Marnell, and tell him I send him backa thing that is no better than she should be."
Agnes, whose sense of the ludicrous was very delicate, thought she wouldbe quite safe in making that report.
"I'll have thy sister in the stead of thee. She is a well-looking maidenough, and of good conditions. I saw her this last week, when she thatwas Queen Margaret was sent from Windsor to Wallingford."
Agnes felt quietly amused. It was Frideswide who had been the Duke'sfirst friend, not she. He would be no worse by the exchange--whatevershe might be.
"Dost hear, hussy?"
"Aye, Madam, an't like you."
"Then begone!"
And so--for Agnes Marston--closed the Lady Anne's wedding-day.
She went quietly enough upstairs to the room shared by the chamberers ofthe Duchess. For a moment she stopped at the summit, with her hand onthe banister. A sharp pain was shooting through her heart, but whenceand what it was she did not know herself.
"What does it matter?" she said to herself, looking out of the window atthe starry night. "Only such a little while! '_Alle thingis, and inalle thingis, Crist!_'"