“it is not love that steals the heart from love: ’tis the hard world, and its perplexing cares; its petrifying selfishness, its pride, its low ambition, and its paltry aims.”
caroline bowles.
lady basset fulfilled her promise of writing to her brother, and sent her own squire with the letter. it was uncertain where the duke might be, and consequently how long the journey might take. the messenger was instructed to seek him first at windsor, and to be guided in his further movements by what he might hear there. no time was lost, for the squire set out on his journey that very evening.
about the time of his departure, the archbishop and mr altham held their little conference. regina was at work in the window-seat, by her husband’s contrivance. theoretically, he took the popular view of the condign inferiority of the female intellect; while practically he held his regina in the highest reverence, and never thought of committing himself on any important subject without first ascertaining her opinion. and the goldsmith’s daughter deserved his esteem; for she possessed a warm heart and a large reserve of quiet good sense. they were both highly delighted to see that the archbishop seemed inclined to show kindness to the young cousin whose relationship he, at least, was not too proud to acknowledge.
“nor should he not be,” said regina, whose tiny bobbins were flying about on her lace-cushion, too fast for the eye to follow. “did we not come, all, from von man and von woman? i tink adam was not too proud to speak to abel: and if cain would not talk, he was bad man, and we should not take de pattern after de bad mans. ach! if dere was none but good mans and good womans, what better of a world it should be!”
regina had too much tact and sense of propriety to thrust herself into the conversation between the archbishop and her husband; she sat silently listening and working, and the sprigs of lace flowers grew rapidly under her skilful fingers.
“i would fain speak with you, mr altham,” said the archbishop, “touching the disposing of my cousin amphillis. i cannot but feel that the maid hath been somewhat wronged by her father’s kin; and though, thanks be to god, i never did her nor him any hurt, yet, being of his kindred, i would desire you to suffer me a little to repair this wrong. she seemeth me a good maid and a worthy, and well bred in courtesy; wherefore, if my word might help her to secure a better settlement, i would not it were lacking. i pray you, therefore, to count me as your friend and hers, and tell me how you think to order her life. she hath, i take it, none other guardian than you?”
“my lord, your grace doth us great honour. ’tis true, the maid hath none other guardian than i; and her mother was mine only sister, and i held her dear: and seeing she had none other to give an helping hand, i was in the mind to portion her with mine own daughters. i gave to the two, and shall give to the other, five pound apiece to their marriages, and likewise their wedding gear; and seeing she is a good, decent maid, and a credit to her kin, i would do the same by amphillis.”
“therein do you act full nobly, master altham,” said the archbishop; for the sum named was a very handsome one for a girl in mr altham’s station of life at that time. only a tradesman very well-to-do could have afforded to portion his daughter so highly, with an amount equivalent in the present day to about 80 pounds. “go to, then: will you suffer me that i endow my young kinswoman with the like sum, and likewise find her in an horse for her riding?”
in days when public conveyances of all kinds were totally unknown, a horse was almost a necessity, and only the very poor were without one at least. the price of such a horse as would be considered fit for amphillis was about thirty shillings or two pounds. the offer of the archbishop therefore struck mr altham as a most generous one, and his thanks were profuse accordingly.
“have you taken any thought for her disposal?” inquired the prelate.
“no, in very deed,” replied the worthy patty-maker, with some hesitation. “there be nigh me divers youths of good conditions, that i dare be bound should be fain to wed with a maid of good lineage and decent ’haviour, with a pretty penny in her pocket; but i never brake my mind to any, and—” here mr altham glanced at regina, and received an optic telegram across the bobbins—“if your grace were pleased to think of any that you had a favour for, i would not in no wise stand in the way thereto.”
“methinks,” said the archbishop, “under your leave, worthy master altham, my cousin might look somewhat higher. truly, i mean not to cast scorn on any good and honest man; we be all sons of adam: but—in a word, to speak out straightway, i have one in my mind that i reckon should not make an ill husband for amphillis, and this is sir godfrey foljambe his squire, master norman hylton, that is of birth even with her, and i believe a full worthy young man, and well bred. if it may suit with your reckoning, what say you to breaking your mind to him thereupon, and seeing if he be inclined to entertain the same?”
“my lord,” replied master altham, after exchanging another telegram with his mentor, “in good sooth, both phyllis and i are much beholden unto you, and i will full gladly so do.”
“yet, master altham, i would desire you to be satisfied touching this young man’s conditions, ere you do fix your mind upon him. i hear well of him from all that do know him—indeed, i am myself acquaint with some of his near kin—with twain of his uncles and a brother—yet i would fain have you satisfied therewith no less than myself.”
optic telegrams would not answer this time, for regina’s eyes were not lifted from the lace-cushion. mr altham hesitated a moment, murmured a few words of thanks, and at last came out openly with—“what sayest, sweetheart?”
“he will do,” was regina’s answer. “he is good man. he have clear eyes, he look you in de face; he pray in de chapel, and not run his eyes all round; he laugh and chatter-patter not wid other damsels; he is sad, courteous, and gent. he will do, husband.”
little idea had amphillis that her future was being thus settled for her downstairs, as she sat in the countess’s chamber, tending her sick lady. the countess was slowly sinking. father jordan thought she might live perhaps for another month; it was only a question of time. perrote said that the soul was keeping the body alive. the old fiery flashes of passion were never seen now; she showed a little occasional irritability and petulance, but usually her mood was one of listless, languid weariness, from which nothing aroused her, and in which nothing interested her. the one burning, crying desire of her heart was to see her son. she did not know of the fruitless application which had been already made to him; still less of the renewed appeal, to which no answer could be returned for some days at least. her belief was that sir godfrey would not permit any message to be sent, and that if he did, king edward would not allow the duke, who was his vassal, to obey it. to the least hint that the duke might or could himself decline, she refused to listen so decidedly that no one had the heart to repeat it. more plaintive, day by day, grew the dying mother’s yearning moans for her best-loved child. in vain perrote tried to assure her that human love was inadequate to satisfy the cravings of her immortal soul; that god had made her for himself, and that only when it reached and touched him could the spirit which he had given find rest.
“i cannot hearken to thee, old woman,” said the dying prisoner. “my whole soul is set on my lad, and is bent to see him before i die. let god grant me that, and i will listen to him after—i will love the good god then. i cannot rest, i cannot rest without my lad!”
the days wore on, and the snows of february passed into the winds of march. lady basset remained at hazelwood, but her squire had not returned. the countess was very weak now.
the archbishop of york had delayed his departure too. he would answer for it, he said, both to his superior of canterbury and to the king. in his own heart he was not satisfied with the ministrations of kindly, ignorant father jordan, who was very desirous to soothe the perturbed soul of the countess, and had not the least idea how to do it. he thought he might yet be of service to the dying princess.
very cautiously mr altham ventured with some trepidation to sound norman hylton as to his feelings towards amphillis. notwithstanding the archbishop’s countenance and solid help, he was sorely afraid of being snubbed and sat upon for his presumption. he was therefore proportionately relieved when norman assured him he wished no better fate to overtake him, but that he was unable to see how he could possibly afford to marry.
“verily, master altham, i do you to wit, i have but five possessions—myself, my raiment, mine harness (armour was termed harness up to the seventeenth century), mine horse, and my book. not a yard of land have i, nor look to have: nor one penny in my plack, further than what i earn. how then can i look to keep a wife? well i wot that mistress amphillis were fortune in herself to him that is so lucky as to win her; but in good sooth, no such thing is there as luck, and i should say, that hath so much favour of. god, seeing the wise man saith that ‘a prudent wife is given properly of the lord.’ yet i reckon that the wisest in the world can scarce keep him warm of a winter day by lapping him in his wisdom; and the fairest and sweetest lady shall lack somewhat to eat beside her own sweetness. could i see my way thereto, trust me, i would not say you nay; but—”
“but how, master hylton, if she carried her pocket full of nobles?”
“ah, then it were other matter. i would stand to it gladly if so were.”
“well, for how much look you? amphillis should bring you a portion of ten pound beside her wedding gear, and an horse.”
“say you so? methinks we were made, then, could we win into some great house to serve the lord and lady thereof.”
“i cast no doubt, if he had the opportunity, my lord’s grace of york should help you at that pinch. he seems full ready to do his young kinswoman all the good he may.”
“may i but see my way afore me, master altham, nought should make me gladder than to fulfil this your behest.”
mr altham laid the case before the archbishop.
“tell master hylton he need give himself not so much thought thereon as a bee should pack in his honey-bag,” was the smiling reply. “i will warrant, so soon as it is known in the court that i lack place for a newly-wedded cousin and her husband, there shall be so many warm nests laid afore me, that i shall have but to pick and choose. if that be all the bar to my cousin’s wedding, i may bless it to-morrow.”
it was evident that there was no other difficulty, from the glad light in norman hylton’s eyes when he was told the archbishop’s answer. the matter was settled at once. only one small item was left out, considered of no moment—the bride-elect knew nothing about the transaction. that was a pleasure to come. that it would, should, might, or could, be anything but a pleasure, never occurred either to the archbishop or to mr altham. they would not have belonged to their century if it had done so.
it was the afternoon of the ninth of march. no answer had been received from the duke, and perrote had almost lost hope. the countess petulantly declined to allow any religious conversation in her chamber. she was restless and evidently miserable, perrote thought more so than merely from the longing desire to see her son; but some strange and unusual reserve seemed to have come over her. physically, she sank day by day: it would soon be hour by hour.
amphillis was off duty for the moment, and had seated herself with her work at the window of her own room, which looked into the outer court, and over the walls towards derby. she kept upstairs a good deal at this time. there were several reasons for this. she wished to be close at hand if her services were needed; she had no fancy for agatha’s rattle; and—she had not asked herself why—she instinctively kept away from the company of norman hylton. amphillis was not one of those girls who wear their hearts upon their sleeves; who exhibit their injuries, bodily or mental, and chatter freely over them to every comer. her instinct was rather that of the wounded hart, to plunge into the deepest covert, away from every eye but the omniscient.
mr and mrs altham had pursued their journey without any further communication to amphillis. it was lady foljambe’s prerogative to make this; indeed, a very humble apology had to be made to her for taking the matter in any respect out of her hands. this was done by the archbishop, who took the whole blame upon himself, and managed the delicate affair with so much grace, that lady foljambe not only forgave the althams, but positively felt herself flattered by his interference. she would inform amphillis, after the death of the countess, how her future had been arranged.
the maiden herself, in ignorance of all arrangements made or imagined, was indulging in some rather despondent meditations. the state of the countess, whom she deeply pitied; the probably near parting from perrote, whom she had learned to love; and another probable parting of which she would not let herself think, were enough to make her heart sink. she would, of course, go back to her uncle, unless it pleased lady foljambe to recommend (which meant to command) her to the service of some other lady. and amphillis was one of those shy, intense souls for whom the thought of new faces and fresh scenes has in it more fear than hope. she knew that there was just a possibility that lady foljambe might put her into ricarda’s place, which she had not yet filled up, three or four different negotiations to that end having failed to effect it; and either this or a return to her uncle was the secret hope of her heart. she highly respected and liked her new aunt regina, and her uncle robert was the only one of her relatives on the mother’s side whom she loved at all. yet the prospect of a return to london was shadowed by the remembrance of alexandra, who had ever been to amphillis a worry and a terror.
as amphillis sat by the window, she now and then lifted her head to look out for a moment; and she did so now, hearing the faint ring of a horn in the distance. her eyes lighted on a party of horsemen, who were coming up the valley. they were too far away to discern details, but she saw some distant flashes, as if something brilliant caught the sunlight, and also, as she imagined, the folds of a banner floating. was it a party of visitors coming to the manor, or, more likely, a group of travellers on their way to chesterfield from derby? or was it—oh, was it possible!—the duke of bretagne?
amphillis’s embroidery dropped on the rushes at her feet, as she sprang up and watched the progress of the travellers. she was pretty sure presently that the banner was white, then that some of the travellers were armed, then that they were making for hazelwood, and at last that the foremost knight of the group wore a helmet royally encircled. she hardly dared to breathe when the banner at last showed its blazon as pure ermine; and it scarcely needed the cry of “notre dame de gwengamp!” to make amphillis rush to the opposite room, beckon perrote out of it, and say to her in breathless ecstasy—
“the duke! o mistress perrote, the lord duke!”
“is it so?” said perrote, only a little less agitated than amphillis. “is it surely he? may it not be a messenger only?”
“i think not so. there is an ermine pennon, and the foremost knight hath a circlet on his helm.”
“pray god it so be! phyllis, i will go down anon and see how matters be. go thou into our lady’s chamber—she slept but now—and if she wake, mind thou say not a word to her hereupon. if it be in very deed my lord duke, i will return with no delay.”
“but if she ask?”
“parry her inquirations as best thou mayest.”
amphillis knew in her heart that she was an exceedingly bad hand at that business; but she was accustomed to do as she was told, and accordingly she said no more. she was relieved to find the countess asleep, the cry for admission not having been loud enough to wake her. she sat down and waited.
perrote, meanwhile, had gone down into the hall, where lady foljambe sat at work with agatha. sir godfrey was seated before the fire, at which he pointed a pair of very straight and very lengthy legs; his hands were in his pockets, and his look conveyed neither contentment nor benevolence. in a recess of the window sat young matthew, whistling softly to himself as he stroked a hawk upon his gloved wrist, while his brother godfrey stood at another window, looking out, with his arms upon the sill. the only person who noticed perrote’s entrance was agatha, and she pulled a little face by way of relief to her feelings. lady foljambe worked on in silence.
“sir,” said perrote, addressing herself to the master of the house, “phyllis tells me a party be making hither, that she hath seen from the window; and under your good pleasure, i reckon, from what the maid saw, that it be my lord’s grace of bretagne and his meynie.”
sir godfrey struggled to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. his elder son turned round from the window; the younger said, “ha, jolife! now, gille, go on thy perch, sweet heart!” and set the falcon on its perch. agatha’s work went down in a moment. lady foljambe alone seemed insensible to the news. at the same moment, the great doors at the end of the hall were flung open, and the seneschal, with a low bow to his master and mistress, cried—
“room for the duke’s grace of brittany!”
as the new arrivals entered the hall, lady basset came in from the opposite end. the duke, a fine, rather stern-looking man, strode forward until he reached the daïs where the family sat; and then, doffing his crowned helmet, addressed himself to sir godfrey foljambe.
“sir, i give you good even. king edward your lord greets you by me, and bids you give good heed to that which you shall find herein.”
at a motion from the duke, quick and peremptory, one of his knights stepped forth and delivered the royal letter.
sir godfrey took it into his hands with a low reverence, and bade his seneschal fetch father jordan, without whose assistance it was impossible for him to ascertain his sovereign’s bidding.
father jordan hastened in, cut the silken string, and read the letter.
“messire,—our will and pleasure is, that you shall entertain in your manor of hazelwood, for such time as shall be his pleasure, our very dear and well-beloved son, john, duke of brittany and count de montfort, neither letting nor deferring the said duke from intercourse with our prisoner his mother, margaret, duchess of brittany, but shall suffer him to speak with her at his will. and for so doing this shall be your warrant. by the king. at our castle of winchester, the morrow of saint romanus.”
lady foljambe turned to the duke and inquired when it would be his pleasure to speak with the prisoner.
“when her physician counts it meet,” said he, with a slight movement of his shapely shoulders, which did not augur much gratification at the prospect before him. “by my faith, had not king edward my father insisted thereon, then had i never come on so idle a journey. when i looked every morrow for news from bretagne, bidding me most likely thither, to trot over half england for an old dame’s diversion were enough to try the patience of any knight on earth! i shall not tarry long here, i do ensure you, his highness’ bidding fulfilled; and i trust your physician shall not long tarry me.”
sir godfrey and lady foljambe were full of expressions of sympathy. lady basset came forward, and spoke in a slightly cynical tone.
“good morrow, my lord,” said she to her brother. “you came not to see me, i think, more in especial as i shall one of these days be an old woman, when your grace’s regard for me shall perish. father jordan, i pray you, let it not be long ere you give leave for this loving son to have speech of his mother. ’twere pity he should break his heart by tarrying.”
father jordan nervously intimated that if the countess were not asleep, he saw no reason why his grace’s visit should be delayed at all.
“nay, but under your leave, my good host, i will eat first,” said the duke; “were it but to strengthen me for the ordeal which waiteth me.”
lady foljambe disappeared at once, on hospitable thoughts intent, and sir godfrey was profuse in apologies that the suggestion should have needed to come from the duke. but the only person in the hall who, except his sister, was not afraid of the duke, stepped forth and spoke her mind.
