CHAPTER XXXVII.
Once more the fleeting soul came back
T' inspire the mortal frame,
And in the body took a doubtful stand,
Hovering like expiring flame,
That mounts and falls by turns.--Dryden.
The painful situation of Lady Constance de Grey had not lost any portion of its sorrow, or gained any ray of hope, on the first of June, three days after we last left her, at which period we again take up her story. She was then sitting in a small, poor cottage between Whitesand Bay and Boulogne, watching the slumber of the excellent old man whose regard for her had brought upon his head so much pain and danger. Ever since he had been removed to the hut where they now were, he had lingered in great agony, except at those times when a state of stupor fell upon him, under which he would remain for many hours, and only wake from it again to acute pain. He had, however, that morning fulfilled the last duties of his religion, with the assistance of a good monk of Boulogne, who now sat with Lady Constance, watching the sweet sleep into which he had fallen for the first time since their shipwreck.
Across the little window, to keep out the light, Constance had drawn one of her own dresses, which had been saved by the sailor Bradford having tied the leathern case that contained them to the plank which had brought herself to shore; but still through the casement, notwithstanding this sort of extemporaneous curtain, the soft breath of the early morning flowed in; and the murmuring voice of the treacherous ocean was heard softly from afar, filling up every pause in the singing of the birds and the busy hum of all the light children of the summer.
The calmness of the old man's slumber gave Constance hope; and with a sweet smile she sat beside him, listening to the mingled voice of creation, and joining mentally in the song of praise that all things seemed raising towards the great Creator. Indeed, if ever mortal being might be supposed to resemble those pure spirits who, freed from all touch of clay, adore the Almighty in his works, she then looked like an angel, in form, in feature, and in expression, while, robed all in white, and watching the sick bed of her ancient friend, she looked upon his tranquil slumber with that bland smile of hope and gratitude.
In the mean while the old monk sat on the other side of his bed, regarding him with more anxiety; for long experience in visiting those who hung upon the brink of another world tad taught him, that sleep like that into which the clergyman had fallen as often precedes death as recovery. It had continued thus till towards mid-day, the cottage being left in solitude and silence; for the sailor Bradford had gone to seek remedies from a simpler at Boulogne, and Jekin Groby had stolen away for a visit to Calais, while the people to whom the cottage belonged were absent upon their daily occupations. At length, however, a slight sort of convulsive motion passed over the features of the old man, and, opening his eyes, he said in a faint, low voice, "Constance, my dear child, where are you? My eyes are dim."
"I am here, my dear sir," replied Constance. "You have been sleeping very sweetly. I hope you feel better."
"It is over, Constance!" replied Dr. Wilbraham, calmly, but feebly. "I am dying, my child. Let me see the sunshine." Constance withdrew the curtain, and the fresh air blowing on the sick man's face seemed to give him more strength. "It is bright," cried he; "it is very bright. I feel the sweet summer air, and I hear the glad singing of the birds; but I go fast, dear daughter, where there are things brighter and sweeter; for surely, surely, God, who has clothed this world with such splendour, has reserved far greater for the world to come."
The tears streamed down Constance's cheeks, for there was in the old man's face a look of death not to be mistaken; that look, the inevitable precursor of dissolution to man, when it seems as if the avenging angel had come between him and the sun of being, and cast his dark shadow over him for ever.
"Weep not, Constance," said the old man, with faint and broken efforts; "for no storms will reach me in my Redeemer's bosom. In his mercy is my hope, in his salvation is my reliance. Soon, soon shall I be in the place of peace, where joy reigneth eternally. Could I have a fear, my dear child, it would be for you, left alone in a wide and desolate world, with none to protect you. But, no; I have no fear: God is your protector; and never, never, my child, doubt his goodness, nor think that he does not as surely watch over the universe as he that created it at first. Everything is beneath his eye, from the smallest grain of sand to the great globe itself; and his will governs all, and guides all, though we see neither the beginning nor the end. Constance, I am departing," he continued, more faintly: "God's blessing be upon you, my child! and, oh! if He in his wisdom ever permits the spirit of the dead to watch over those they loved when living, I will be with you and Darnley when this frail body is dust."
His lips began gradually to lose their power of utterance, and his head fell back upon the pillow. The monk saw that the good man's end was approaching fast, and placing the crucifix in his dying hand, he poured the words of consolation in his ear; but Dr. Wilbraham slightly motioned with his hand, to signify that he was quite prepared, and fixing his eyes upon the cross, murmured to himself, "I come, O Lord, I come! Be thou merciful unto me, O King of mercy! Deliver speedily from the power of death, O Lord of life!"
The sounds gradually ceased, but yet his lips continued to move; his lips lost their motion, but his eyes were fixed, full of hope, upon the cross; a film came over them; it passed away, and the light beamed up again--shone brightly for a moment--waned--vanished--and all was death. The eyes were still fixed upon the cross, but that bright thing, life, was there no more. To look at them, no one could say what was gone between that minute and the one before; and yet it was evident that they were now but dust: the light was extinguished, the wine was poured out, and it was but the broken lamp, the empty urn, that remained to go down into the tomb.
Constance closed his eyes, and weeping bitterly, knelt down with the old monk, and joined in the prayer that he addressed to heaven. She then rose, and seated herself by all that remained of her dead friend, feeling alone in all the world, solitary, friendless, desolate; and straining her sweet eyes upon the cold, unresponsive countenance of the dead, she seemed bitterly to drink to the dregs the cup of hopelessness which that sight offered.
No one spoke. The monk himself was silent, seeming to think that the prayer he had offered to the Deity was the only fitting language for the presence of the dead; when a sound was heard without, and the door, gently opening, admitted the form of Jekin Groby. The good clothier thought the old man still slept, as when he had left the cottage, and advanced on tiptoe for fear of waking him; but the lifted hand of the monk, the streaming eyes of Constance, and the cold, rigid stiffness of the face before him, warned him of what had happened; and pausing suddenly, he clasped his hands with a look of unaffected sorrow. "Good God!" cried he, "he is dead! Alas the day!" Constance's tears streamed afresh. "Lady," said the worthy man, in a kindly tone, "take comfort! He is gone to a better place than we have here, poor hapless souls! And surely, if all were as well fitted for that place as he was, we should have little cause to fear our death, and our gossips little cause to weep. Take comfort, sweet lady! take comfort! Our God is too good for us to murmur when he cuts our measure short."
There was something in the homely consolation of the honest Englishman that touched Constance to the heart, and yet she could not refrain from weeping even more than before.
"Nay, nay, dear lady," continued Jekin, affected almost to tears himself; "you must come away from here. I cannot bear to see you weep so; and though I am but a poor clothier, and little fitted to put myself in his place that is gone, I will never leave you till I see you safe. Indeed I won't! Come, lady, into the other cottage hard by, and we will send some one to watch here in your place. Lord, Lord! to think how soon a fellow-creature is gone! Sure I thought to find him better when I came back. Come, lady, come!"
"Perhaps I had better," replied Constance, drying her tears. "My cares for him are useless; yet, though I murmur not at God's will, I must e'en weep, for I have lost as good a friend, and the world has lost as good a man, as ever it possessed. But I will go; for it is in vain to stay here and encourage unavailing grief." She then addressed a few sentences to the monk in French, thanking him for his charitable offices towards her dead friend, and begging him to remain there till she could send some one to watch the body; adding, that if he would come after that to the adjoining cottage, she would beg him to convey to his convent a small gift on her part.
The monk bowed his head, and promised to obey; and Constance, giving one last look to the inanimate form of the excellent being she had just lost, followed Jekin Groby to the cottage hard by, where, begging to be left alone, she once more burst into tears, and let both her sorrow and despondency have way, feeling that sort of oppression at her heart which can be relieved but by weeping.
It is needless to follow farther such sad scenes; to tell the blunt grief of Bradford, when he returned and found that his errand had been in vain; or to describe the funeral of good Dr. Wilbraham, which took place the next day (for so custom required) in the little cemetery of Whitesand Bay.
Immediately this was over, Lady Constance prepared to set out for Boulogne, hoping to find a refuge in the heart of France till she had time to consider and execute some plan for her future conduct. We have twice said, that the sailor, in tying her to the plank on which she had floated from the shipwrecked vessel, had fastened to the end of the board nearest her feet one of her own leathern cases, for the purpose of keeping her head raised above the water; and in this, as it luckily happened, were all the jewels and the money which she had brought with her from London.
It would doubtless have rendered her situation much more critical and interesting if she had been deprived of all such resources; but as the fact was so, it is necessary to state it. No difficulty, therefore, seemed likely to present itself in her journey to her own estates, except that which might arise in procuring a litter to convey her on her way, or in meeting with some female attendant willing to accompany her. The latter of these was soon done away with; for the daughter of the cottagers where she had lodged, a gay, good-humoured Picarde, gladly undertook the post of waiting-woman to the sweet lady, whose gentleness had won them all; and Bradford, who, from a soldier, a sailor, a shipwright, and a Rochester rioter, had now become a squire of dames, was despatched to Boulogne to see if he could buy or hire a litter and horses.
In the midst of all these proceedings, poor Jekin Groby was sadly agitated by many contending feelings. In his first fit of sympathy with Constance on the death of Dr. Wilbraham, he had, as we have seen, promised to accompany her to the end of her journey, whithersoever it might be; but the thoughts of dear little England, and his own fireside, and his bales of cloth, and his bags of angels, called him vehemently across the Channel, while curiosity, with a certain touch of mercantile calculation, pulled him strongly towards the court at Calais. Notwithstanding, he resolved, above all things, to act handsomely, as he said, towards the lady; and accordingly he accompanied Bradford to Boulogne, to ascertain if he could by any way get off trudging after her the Lord knew where, as he expressed it, though he vowed he was very willing to go if he could be of any service.
After the sailor and his companion had been absent about six hours, Constance began to be impatient, and proceeded to the door of the cottage to see if she could perceive them coming. Gazing for a few minutes on the road to Boulogne, she beheld, rising above the brow of the hill before her, a knight's pennon, and presently half-a-dozen spears appeared bristling up behind it. Judging that it was some accidental party proceeding towards Whitesand Bay, Constance retired into the cottage, and was not a little surprised when she heard the horses halt before the door. In a moment after, a gallant cavalier, in peaceful guise, armed only with his sword and dagger, entered the hut, and, doffing his plumed mortier to the lady, with a low inclination of the head, he advanced towards her, saying in French, "Have I the honour of speaking to the noble Lady de Grey, Countess of Boissy and the Val de Marne?"
"The same, sir knight," replied the lady. "To what, may I ask, do I owe the honour of your presence?"
"His highness Francis King of France, now in the city of Boulogne," replied the knight, "hearing that a lady, and his vassal, though born an English subject, had been shipwrecked on this shore, has chosen me for the pleasing task of inviting, in his name, the Countess de Boissy to repair to his royal court, not as a sovereign commanding the homage of his vassal, but as a gracious and a noble friend, offering service and good-will. His highness's sister, also, the Princess Marguerite of Alençon, has sent her own litter for your convenience, with such escort as may suit your quality."
Constance could only express her thanks. Had she possessed the power of choice, she would of course have preferred a thousand times to have retired to the Val de Marne, without her coming being known to the French king or his court, till such time, at least, as the meeting between him and the King of England had taken place. However, as it was known, she could not refuse to obey, and she signified her readiness to accompany the French knight, begging him merely to wait till the return of a person she had sent to Boulogne for a litter.
"He will not return, lady," replied the chevalier. "It was through his search for a litter at Boulogne, where none are to be had, all being bought for the court's progress to Ardres, that his highness became acquainted with your arrival within his kingdom."
The knight was proceeding to inform her of the circumstances which had occurred, when the quick sound of horses' feet was heard without, joined to the clanging of arms, the jingling of spurs and trappings, and various rough cries in the English tongue.
"Have her! but I will have her, by the Lord!" cried a voice near the door; and in a moment after, a knight, armed at all points, strode into the cottage. "How now! how now!" cried he; "what is all this? Ah, Monsieur de Bussy," he continued, changing his language to broken, abominable French, "what are you doing with this lady?"
"I come, Sir John Hardacre," answered the Frenchman, "to invite her to the court of Francis of France, whose vassal the lady is."
"And I come," replied the Englishman, "to claim her for Henry King of England, whose born subject she is, and ward of the crown; and so I will have her, and carry her to Guisnes, as I am commanded."
"That depends upon circumstances, sir," answered the Frenchman, offended at the tone of the other. "You are governor of Calais, but you do not command here. You are off the English pale, sir; and I say that unless the lady goes with you willingly and by preference, you shall not take her."
"I shall not!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Who the devil shall stop me?"
"That will I," answered the French knight; "and I tell you so to your beard."
The Englishman laid his hand upon his sword, and the Frenchman was not slack to follow his example; but Constance interposed. "Hold, hold, gentlemen!" cried she; "I am not worthy of such contention. Monsieur de Bussy, favour me by offering every expression of my humble duty to his highness your noble king; and show him that I intended instantly to have obeyed his commands, and followed you to his court, but that I am compelled, against my will, to do otherwise. Sir John Hardacre, I am ready to accompany you."
"If such be your will, fair lady," replied the French knight, "I have nothing but to execute your charge. However, I must repeat, that without your full consent you shall not be taken from French ground, or I am no true knight."
An angry replication trembled on the lip of the English captain, but Constance stopped its utterance by once more declaring her willingness to go; and the French officer, bowing low, thrust back his sword into the sheath, and left the cottage, somewhat out of humour with the event of his expedition.
When he and his followers had ridden away, Sir John Hardacre called up a lady's horse, which one of his men-at-arms led by the bridle; and after permitting Constance to make some change of her apparel, and to pay the good folks of the cottage for her entertainment, he placed her in the saddle, and holding the bridle himself, led her away at a quick pace towards Guisnes. He was a rough old soldier, somewhat hardened by long military service; but the beauty and gentleness of his fair prisoner (for such indeed may we consider poor Constance to have been) somewhat softened his acerbity; and after riding on for near an hour in silence, during which he revolved at least twenty ways of addressing the lady, without pleasing himself with any, he began by a somewhat bungling excuse, both for his errand and his manner of executing it.
"I suppose, sir," replied Constance, coldly, "that you have done your duty. Whether you have done it harshly or not is for you to consider."
This quite put a stop to all the knight's intentions of conversation, and did not particularly soothe his humour; so that for many miles along the road he failed not every moment to turn round his head, and vent his spleen upon his men in various high-seasoned curses, for faults which they might or might not have committed, as the case happened; the knight's powers of objurgation not only extending to the cursing itself, but also to supplying the cause.
It was nearly seven o'clock when they began to approach the little town of Guisnes, but at that season of the year the full light of day was still shining upon all the objects round about; and Constance might perceive, as they rode up, all the bustle, and crowding, and idle activity caused by the arrival of the court.
Her heart sank when she saw it, and thought of all she might there have to endure. Under any other circumstances, however, it would have been a gay and a pleasing sight; so full of life and activity, glitter and show, was everything that met the eye.
To the southward of the town of Guisnes, upon the large open green that extended on the outside of the walls, were to be seen a vast number of tents, of all kinds and colours, with a multitude of busy human beings employed in raising fresh pavilions on every open space, or in decorating those already spread with streamers, pennons, and banners, of all the bright hues under the sun. Long lines of horses and mules loaded with armour or baggage, and ornamented with gay ribbons, to put them in harmony with the scene, were winding about, all over the plain, some proceeding towards the town, some seeking the tents of their several lords; while, mingled amongst them, appeared various bands of soldiers, on horseback and on foot, with the rays of the declining sun glancing upon the heads of their bills and lances, and, together with the white cassock and broad red cross, marking them out from all the other objects. Here and there, too, might be seen a party of knights and gentlemen cantering over the plain, and enjoying the bustle of the scene, or standing in separate groups, issuing their orders for the erection and garnishing of their tents; while couriers, and pursuivants, and heralds, in all their gay dresses, mingled with mule-drivers, lacqueys, and peasants, armourers, pages, and tent-stretchers, made up the living part of the landscape.
Behind lay the town of Guisnes, with the forest at its back; and a good deal nearer, the castle, with its protecting guns pointed over the plain; but the most striking object, and that which instantly caught the eye, was a building raised immediately in front of the citadel, on which all that art could devise, or riches could procure, had been lavished, to render it a palace fit for the luxurious king who was about to make it his temporary residence.
From the distance at which they were when it first struck her sight, Constance could only perceive that it was a vast and splendid edifice, apparently square, and seeming to offer a façade of about four hundred feet on every side, while the sun, reflected from the gilding with which it was covered, and the immense quantity of glass that it contained, rendered it like some great ornament of gold enriched with brilliants.
Although her heart was sad, and nothing that she saw tended to dispel its gloom, she could not refrain from gazing round with a half-curious, half-anxious glance upon all the gay objects that surrounded her; almost fearing to be recognised by some one who had known her at the court, now that she was led along as a kind of prisoner; a single woman amidst a band of rude soldiers. Sir John Hardacre, however, spurred on towards the bridge, which was nearly impassable from the number of beasts of burden and their drivers by which it was covered; and standing on but little ceremony with his fellow-lieges, he dashed through the midst of them all, cursing one, and striking another, and overturning a third, much to Constance's horror and dismay. Having reached the other side, and created by his haste as much confusion and discomfort as he could in his passage, the surly captain slackened his pace, muttering something about dignity, and turned his rein towards the temporary palace of the king. Proceeding slowly amidst a multitude, many of whom had seen her before, and whose notice she was very willing to escape, Constance's only resource was to fix her eyes upon the palace, and to busy herself in the contemplation of its splendour.
Raised upon a high platform, it was not only visible from every part of the plain, but itself commanded a view of the whole gay scene below, with its tents and its multitudes, standing as a sort of nucleus to all the magnificence around.
Before the gate to which Sir John Hardacre took his way, and which was itself a massy arch, flanked by two towers raised upon the platform, there stood two objects not unworthy of remark, as exemplifying the tastes of the day: the one was a magnificent fountain, richly wrought with arches and arabesques, painted in fine gold and blue, supporting a figure of Bacchus crowned with vine leaves, over whose head appeared inscribed, in letters of gold, "Faites bonne chère qui voudra." No unmeaning invitation, for the fountain below ceased not to pour forth three streams of various coloured wines, supplied by reservoirs in the interior of the palace. On the other side of the gate were seen four golden lions supporting a pillar of bronze, round the shaft of which twined up various gilt wreaths, interlaced together; while on the summit stood a statue of Venus's "purblind son and heir," pointing his arrows at those who approached the gate.
Nevertheless, it was not on the charmed cup of the one, or the bended bow of the other chicken deity, that the battlemented arch above mentioned relied for defence; for in the several windows were placed gigantic figures of men in armour, apparently in the act of hurling down enormous rocks upon the head of whatever venturous stranger should attempt to pass the prescribed bound. At the same time appeared round about various goodly paintings of the demigods of story: the Herculeses, the Theseuses, the Alexanders, fabulous and historical; while, showing strangely enough in such company, many a fat porter and yeoman of the lodge loitered about in rich liveries, as familiar with the gods and goddesses as if they had been born upon Olympus and swaddled in Tempé.
At the flight of steps which led to this gate Sir John Hardacre dismounted, and lifting Lady Constance from her horse, passed on into the inner court of the palace, which would indeed have been not only splendid, but elegant, had it not been for a few instances of the same refined taste which we have just noticed. The four inner faces of the building were perfectly regular, consisting of two stories, the lower one of which was almost entirely of glass, formed into plain and bow windows alternately, each separated from the other by a slight column of gold, and surrounded by a multitude of arabesques and garlands. Exactly opposite to the gate appeared a vestibule, thrown a little forward from the building, and surmounted by four large bow windows, supported on trimmers, the corbels of which represented a thousand strange gilt faces, looking out from a screen of olive branches, cast in lead and painted green; while various tall statues in silver armour were ranged on each side, as guards to the entrance.
It was towards this sort of hall that Sir John Hardacre led poor Constance de Grey, to whose heart all the gaiety and splendour of the scene seemed but to communicate a more chilling sensation of friendless loneliness; while the very gaze and whispering of the royal servants, who had all known of her flight, and now witnessed her return, made the quick blood mount into her beautiful cheek, as she was hurried along by the brutal soldier, without any regard to her feelings or compassion for her fears.
"You must wait here, Mistress Constance," said he, having led her into the vestibule, which was full of yeomen and grooms, "while I go and tell the right reverend father the lord cardinal that I have brought you."
"Here!" exclaimed Constance, casting her eyes around; "surely you do not mean me to wait here amongst the servants?"
"Why, where would you go?" demanded he, roughly: "I've no other place to put you. Wait here, wait here, and mind you don't run away again."
Constance could support no more, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into a violent flood of tears. At that moment a voice that she knew struck her ear. "This to my cousin, sir!" exclaimed Lord Darby, who had heard what passed as he descended a flight of stairs which led away to the left; "this to my cousin, Sir John Hardacre! You would do better to jump off the donjon of Rochester Castle than to leave her here with lacqueys and footboys."
"And why should I not?" demanded the soldier, his eyes flashing fire. "Mind your own affairs, my Lord Darby, and let me mind mine."
"You are an unfeeling old villain, sir!" answered the earl, passing him and taking Constance by the hand. "Yes, sir! stare your fill! I say you are an unfeeling villain, and neither knight nor gentleman."
The soldier laid his hand upon his sword and drew it half out of its sheath. "Knock him down! knock him down!" cried a dozen voices. "The precincts of the court! out with him! Have his hand off!" Sir John Hardacre thrust his weapon back into the sheath, gazing, however, grimly around, as if he would fain have used it upon some one.
"Your brutal violence, sir," said Lord Darby, "will bring upon you, if you heed not, a worse punishment than I can inflict; yet you will not find me, in a proper place, unwilling to give you a lesson on what is due to a lady. Come, Constance, I will lead you to her highness, where you will meet, I am sure, a kind reception. You, sir, do your errand to my lord cardinal, who shall be informed by me of your noble and knightly treatment of the Lady de Grey."
Thus saying, he led Constance through a long corridor to an ante-chamber, wherein stood two of the queen's pages. Here Lord Darby paused, and sent one of the attendants to request an audience, taking the opportunity of the time they waited to soothe the mind of his fair cousin by informing her of all that had passed in her absence, and assuring her that the queen had ever been her warmest defender.
All the news that he gave her, yof course, took a heavy weight from Constance's mind; and drying her eyes, she congratulated him gladly on his approaching marriage, and would fain, very fain, have asked if he could give her any such consolatory information in regard to Darnley; but the earl had never once mentioned his name, and she knew not how to begin the subject herself. While considering, and hesitating whether to ask boldly or not, the queen's page returned and ushered them to her presence. Constance was still much agitated, and even the kind and dignified sweetness, the motherly tenderness, with which Katherine received her--a tenderness which she had not known for so long--overcame her, and she wept as much as if she had been most unhappy.
The queen understood it all, and sending Lord Darby away, she soon won Constance to her usual placid mood; and then, questioning her of all the dangers and sorrows she had undergone, she gave her the best of all balms, sympathy; trembling at her account of the shipwreck, and melted even to tears by the death of the good clergyman.