“She did—she did! Oh that my father had been by to hear! She bade me stand aside that Anne might pass,—‘not for the younger daughter of Lord Warwick, but for the lady admitted into the royalty of Lancaster!’ Elizabeth Woodville, at least, never dared this insolence!”
“And this Margaret the Duke of Clarence is to place on the throne which your child yonder might otherwise aspire to mount!”
Isabel clasped her hands in mute passion.
“Hark!” said the confidant, throwing open the door—
And along the corridor came, in measured pomp, a stately procession, the chamberlain in front, announcing “Her Highness the Princess of Wales;” and Louis XI., leading the virgin bride (wife but in name and honour, till her dowry of a kingdom was made secure) to her gentle rest. The ceremonial pomp, the regal homage that attended the younger sister thus raised above herself, completed in Isabel’s jealous heart the triumph of the Tempter. Her face settled into hard resolve, and she passed at once from the chamber into one near at hand, where the Duke of Clarence sat alone, the rich wines of the livery, not untasted, before him, and the ink yet wet upon a scroll he had just indited.
He turned his irresolute countenance to Isabel as she bent over him and read the letter. It was to Edward; and after briefly warning him of the meditated invasion, significantly added, “and if I may seem to share this emprise, which, here and alone, I cannot resist, thou shalt find me still, when the moment comes, thy affectionate brother and loyal subject.”
“Well, Isabel,” said the duke, “thou knowest I have delayed this till the last hour to please thee; for verily, lady mine, thy will is my sweetest law. But now, if thy heart misgives thee—”
“It does, it does!” exclaimed the duchess, bursting into tears.
“If thy heart misgives thee,” continued Clarence, who with all his weakness had much of the duplicity of his brothers, “why, let it pass. Slavery to scornful Margaret, vassalage to thy sister’s spouse, triumph to the House which both thou and I were taught from childhood to deem accursed,—why, welcome all! so that Isabel does not weep, and our boy reproach us not in the days to come!”
For all answer, Isabel, who had seized the letter, let it drop on the table, pushed it, with averted face, towards the duke, and turned back to the cradle of her child, whom she woke with her sobs, and who wailed its shrill reply in infant petulance and terror, snatched from its slumber to the arms of the remorseful mother.