The words and the tone of the earl for a moment awed even Isabel; but after a pause, she said suddenly, “And for this, then, Clarence hath joined your quarrel and shared your exile?—for this,—that he may place the eternal barrier of the Lancastrian line between himself and the English throne?”
“I would fain hope,” answered the earl, calmly, “that Clarence will view our hard position more charitably than thou. If he gain not all that I could desire, should success crown our arms, he will, at least, gain much; for often and ever did thy husband, Isabel, urge me to stern measures against Edward, when I soothed him and restrained. Mort Dieu! how often did he complain of slight and insult from Elizabeth and her minions, of open affront from Edward, of parsimony to his wants as prince,—of a life, in short, humbled and made bitter by all the indignity and the gall which scornful power can inflict on dependent pride. If he gain not the throne, he will gain, at least, the succession in thy right to the baronies of Beauchamp, the mighty duchy, and the vast heritage of York, the vice-royalty of Ireland. Never prince of the blood had wealth and honours equal to those that shall await thy lord. For the rest, I drew him not into my quarrel; long before would he have drawn me into his; nor doth it become thee, Isabel, as child and as sister, to repent, if the husband of my daughter felt as brave men feel, without calculation of gain and profit, the insult offered to his lady’s House. But if here I overgauge his chivalry and love to me and mine, or discontent his ambition and his hopes, Mort Dieu! we hold him not a captive. Edward will hail his overtures of peace; let him make terms with his brother, and return.”
“I will report to him what you say, my lord,” said Isabel, with cold brevity and, bending her haughty head in formal reverence, she advanced to the door. Anne sprang forward and caught her hand.
“Oh, Isabel!” she whispered, “in our father’s sad and gloomy hour can you leave him thus?” and the sweet lady burst into tears.
“Anne,” retorted Isabel, bitterly, “thy heart is Lancastrian; and what, peradventure, grieves my father hath but joy for thee.”
Anne drew back, pale and trembling, and her sister swept from the room.
The earl, though he had not overheard the whispered sentences which passed between his daughters, had watched them closely, and his lip quivered with emotion as Isabel closed the door.
“Come hither, my Anne,” he said tenderly; “thou who hast thy mother’s face, never hast a harsh thought for thy father.”
As Anne threw herself on Warwick’s breast, he continued, “And how camest thou to learn that Margaret disowns a deed that, if done by her command, would render my union with her cause a sacrilegious impiety to the dead?”
Anne coloured, and nestled her head still closer to her father’s bosom. Her mother regarded her confusion and her silence with an anxious eye.