CHAPTER XX.
I know not whether the architecture of the middle ages--that peculiar architecture, I mean, which existed in different varieties in England, from a little before the commencement of the reign of the Conqueror, till the end of the reign of Henry VII.--can be said to have advanced or retrograded from the time of Edward III. to the time of Richard. Every one will judge according to his particular tastes of the merits of the style; but one thing is certain, that, although the houses of the lower orders had remained much the same, the domestic arrangement of the baronial residences had greatly improved. Notwithstanding that long period of contention, which succeeded the accession of Henry VI., notwithstanding constant wars and the frequent summons to the field, men seemed to have looked for comfort in the laying out of their dwellings; and the feudal castle, although still a castle, and well fitted for defence, contained in it many of the conveniences of a modern house. Perhaps it was, that the struggle of great parties had taken the place of private quarrels between the great barons themselves and struggles between mere individual conspirators and the crown. Thus great towns were attacked more frequently than fortified mansions; and, during this period, we meet with very few instances of a simple baronial fortress being subjected to siege.
However that might be, the chambers in a great nobleman's house, the halls, the lodging chambers, the ladies' bower, were now all more commodious, light, and airy, than at that former period of few, small, narrow and deep windows, when light and air were excluded, as well as the missiles of an enemy. Not only in monastery, convent, and college, but even in private dwellings, the large oriel was seen here and there, suffering the beams of day to pour freely into the hall, and casting the lines of its delicate tracery upon the floor; and, raised somewhat above the general level of the room, approached by two steps, and furnished with window seats, it afforded a pleasant and sun-shiny sitting-place to the elder and younger members of the family.
There was one of these oriel windows in the lesser hall, of Chidlow castle; and round the raised platform, within the sort of bay which it formed, ran a sort of bench or window seat of carved oak, covered with a loose cushion of crimson velvet. The lattice was open, and soft air and bright light streamed in. The winter had been remarkably long and severe. The snow had lain upon the ground till the end of March; and, even then, when one bright day had succeeded, and withdrawn the white covering of the earth, it was only to be followed by a week or ten days of sharp frost, which reigned in its full rigour during some of the events which we have narrated in the previous chapters. Now, however, winter had departed, and spring commenced with that sudden and rapid transition, which is often the case in more northern countries, and is sometimes seen even in England. The air, as I have said, was soft and genial; the blue skies were hardly chequered by a fleecy cloud; the birds were singing in the trees; the red buds were bursting with the long-checked sap; and snowdrop and violet seemed running races with the primrose and the anemone, to catch the first smile of their sweet mother spring. The little twining shrubs were already green with their young leaves; and the honeysuckle strove hard to cast a verdant mantle over the naked brown limbs of the tall trees which it had climbed. The scene from the lattice of the oriel window was one of those fair English landscapes on which the eye loves to rest; for the castle was situated upon a height, and below spread out a rich and beautiful country, waving in long lines of meadow and wood for fifteen or sixteen miles, till sloping uplands towered into high hills, which glowed with a peculiarly yellow light, never seen anywhere, that I know of, beyond the limits of this island. Gazing from that lattice, over that scene, sat two young and beautiful girls, with whom the reader is already acquainted. Very different, it is true, was their garb from that in which they were first presented to you whose eye rests upon this page; for the more simple garments of the convent had given place to the splendid costume of the court of that time; and the forms, which required no ornament, were half hidden in lace and embroidery. But there was still the beautiful face of Iola, with the bright beaming expression, which seemed to pour forth hope and joy in every look, but now somewhat shaded with a cloud of care; and there, the not less fair, though somewhat more thoughtful, countenance of her cousin Constance, with her deep feeling eyes poring over the far prospect, and seeming to search for something through the thin summer mist that softened all the features of the landscape.
They were both very silent, and evidently busied with their own thoughts. Some attendants passed across the hall, and others lingered, to arrange this or that article of furniture. Others entered to speak with them and the two girls, from time to time, turned an inquiring look at those who came and went, showing that they were in some sort strangers in the home of their fathers.
At length, the hall was cleared of all but themselves, and Constance said in a low voice, "I wish, dear cousin, that my aunt would come. We should not then feel so desolate. I think our good lord and uncle might have left us at the abbey till he was at home himself."
"He would not have made the place much more cheerful," answered Iola, with a faint smile; "for wisdom is a very melancholy thing, dear Constance; at least if it be always like his. I fear me, too, even my good merry aunt would not make this place feel anything but desolate to me, just at present. She might cheer and support me a little, it is true; but I have got terrible dreams of the future, Constance. I try not to think of them, but they will come."
She paused and bent down her eyes, in what seemed painful meditation; and Constance replied, in a gentle tone, saying: "Why, how is this, Iola? You used not to look upon the matter so seriously."
"Alack, it gets very bad as it comes near," answered Iola, with an uncheerful laugh. "It is something very like being sold for a slave, Constance. However, the poor slave cannot help himself, nor I either, so do not let us talk any more about it. I suppose I shall soon see my purchaser. I wonder what he is like. Do you recollect whether he is white or black?"
"Good faith, not I," answered Constance; "but he is not quite a negro, I suppose. I have heard people say he was a pretty boy."
"A pretty boy!" cried Iola, raising her eyebrows. "Heaven defend me! What will become of me if I am married to a pretty boy? Somewhat like Sir Edward Hungerford, I suppose, lisping lamentable nonsense about essences, and bestowing his best thoughts upon his tailor."
"Nay, nay! Why should you conjure up such fancies?" said Constance. "You seem resolved to dislike him without cause."
"Nature, dear cousin," said Iola. "Nature and the pig's prerogative, to dislike any road we are forced to travel. Yet, it is bad policy, I will admit; and I will try to shake it off, and to like him to the best of my ability. The time is coming fast when I must, whether I will or not; for I think the oath I am about to take is to love him. I do think it is very hard that women should not be allowed to choose for themselves, and yet be forced to take an oath which they do not know whether they can keep or not. Well, the worst of all the seven sacraments is matrimony, to my mind. Extreme unction is a joke to it--how can I tell that I shall love him? I don't think I can; and yet I must swear I will."
"You are making a rack of your own fancy," said Constance. "Wait till you have seen him at least, Iola; for, after all, you may find him the very man of your own heart."
Iola started, and then shook her head mournfully, saying, "of my own heart? Oh, no!"
Constance gazed at her in surprise; and for the first time a suspicion of the truth crossed her mind. She said not a word, however, of her doubts, but resolved to watch narrowly, with that kind and eager affection which two girls brought up from youth together often feel for each other, where no rivalry has ever mingled its bitter drop with the sweet current of kindred love. She changed the subject of conversation too, pointing to some towers in the distance, and saying, "I wonder whose castle that is."
"Middleham, I dare say," answered Iola, in an absent tone. "It is somewhere out there--but yet it cannot be Middleham either. Middleham is too far."
"There is something moving upon that road which we see going along the side of the hill," said Constance. "I dare say it is my uncle and his train."
"No, no, Leicester lies out there," answered Iola; "you never can find out the country, dear cousin; and I learn it all in a minute, like the leaf of a book. I dare say it is some wild lord, riding to hawk or to hunt. Heaven send it be not my falcon, just towering to strike me before my uncle comes. I'll not look at them. They seem coming this way;" and she turned from the window and went down the steps, seating herself upon the lower one, and resting her cheek upon her hand.
Constance did watch the approaching party, however, till it became evident that those whom she saw were coming direct towards the castle. They were now seen and now lost among the trees and hedges; but every time they reappeared they were nearer.
At length Constance turned her eyes to Iola, and said, "they are coming hither, whoever they are; and my uncle is certainly not one of the party. They are only five or six in all, and seem young men. Had we not better go away to our own chamber?"
"No," answered Iola, starting up. "I will stay and face them. Something seems to tell me, that I know who is coming. You shall see how well I can behave, Constance, wild as you think me, and untutored in the world's ways as I am."
"They may be mere strangers after all," said Constance; "but here they are; for I can hear the dull sound of their horses' feet upon the drawbridge."
Iola sprang up the steps again with a light step, and twined her arm in that of her cousin. Both movements were very natural. We always like to stand upon a height when we meet those of whom we have any fear or any doubt; and Iola felt the need of sympathy which the very touch of her cousin's arm afforded her. A pause followed, during which Constance sought to say something and to look unconcerned; but words she found not; and her eyes as well as Iola's remained fixed upon the door. At length it opened; and, preceded by one of the officers of the castle, but unannounced by him, two gentlemen entered with a quick step. One was instantly recognized by both the fair girls who stood in the oriel, as Sir Edward Hungerford. The other was a stranger to them both. He was a dark handsome-looking young man, of some two or three and twenty years of age, dressed in somewhat of a foreign fashion, which, had they been much acquainted with such matters, they would have perceived at once to be the mode of the Burgundian court; but Iola's eye rested not upon his dress. It was his face that she scanned; and Constance felt a sort of shudder pass over her cousin's frame, as she leaned upon her arm, which pained and grieved her much. She saw nothing disagreeable, nothing to dislike in the countenance or air of the stranger. His step was free and graceful, his carriage dignified and lordly, his look, though perhaps a little haughty, was open and frank. In fact he was a man well calculated to please a lady's eye; and again Constance said to herself--"There must be some other attachment."
The stranger came on at an equal pace with Sir Edward Hungerford; but it was the latter who first spoke.
"Permit me," he said, "dear ladies, to be lord of the ceremonies, and introduce to you both my noble friend Arthur, Lord Fulmer."
The other seemed not to hear what he said; but, mounting the steps into the oriel at once, he took Iola's hand, saying--
"This must be the Lady Iola."
With a cheek as pale as death, and an eye cold and fixed, but with a firm and unwavering tone, the fair girl answered--
"My name is Iola, my lord. This is my cousin Constance. We grieve that my uncle is not here to receive you fittingly."
"I bring you tidings of your uncle, dear lady," replied Fulmer, still addressing her alone. "A messenger reached me from him at an early hour this morning, telling me that he would be at Chidlow during the evening, with a gay train of guests, and bidding me ride on and have everything prepared for their reception. He spoke indeed of sending a servant forward himself. Has no one arrived?"
"No one, my lord," replied Iola, "at least no one that we have heard of. But, having lived long in close seclusion, we are, as it were, strangers in my uncle's house, without occupation or authority. I pray you use that which my uncle has given you, to order all that may be necessary. As for us, I think we will now retire."
"Nay, not so soon," exclaimed Fulmer, eagerly. "This is but a brief interview indeed."
Sir Edward Hungerford too, in sweet and persuasive tones, besought the two ladies not to leave them, but to stay and give their good advice, as to the delicate preparation of the castle for the expected guests; but Iola remained firm to her purpose; and Constance, when she saw that it would distress her to remain, joined her voice to her cousin's; and, leaving the two gentlemen in the hall, they retired to Iola's chamber.
With her arm through that of Constance, Iola walked slowly but firmly thither; and it was only as she approached the door that anything like agitation showed itself. Then, however, Constance felt her steps waver and her frame shake; and, when they had entered the room, Iola cast herself on her knees by the side of the bed, hid her face upon its coverings, and wept.