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