Kitabı oku: «The Tangled Skein», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XX
DEPARTURE
Everingham could not leave the Palace without bidding farewell to Wessex. For the first time in his life he wished to avoid his friend, yet feared to arouse suspicion, mistrust – what not? in the heart of the man whom he was so unwillingly helping to deceive. He half feared now the frank and searching eyes which had always rested on him with peculiar kindness and friendship; he almost dreaded having to grasp the slender, aristocratic hand, which had ever been extended to him in loyalty and truth.
Nevertheless in his heart there was no desire to draw back. During his lengthy colloquy with His Eminence he had weighed all the consequences of his own actions; though misguided perhaps as to the means, led away by a stronger will than his own, his purpose was pure and his aim high; and though he had tortured his brain with conjectures and fears, he could not see any danger to Wessex in the intrigue devised against him.
As for Lady Ursula, he swore to himself that no harm should ultimately come to her. She would be a tool, a necessary pawn in this game of cross-purposes, which had the freedom and greatness of England for its ultimate aim.
With a firm step Everingham reached the Great Hall, where one by one the company was slowly dispersing. The Earl of Pembroke had gone to his rooms to prepare for the journey; his friends were ready in the Fountain Court to bid him a final farewell. Some of the younger men were still whispering in groups in various parts of the hall, whilst others were continuing their game of hazard.
Everingham took a rapid look round. There, in the embrasure on the dais, Wessex was conversing with the Earl of Oxford, whilst faithful Harry Plantagenet lay calmly sleeping at his feet. The Duke's grave face lighted up at sight of his friend.
"I thought I should have missed you," he said, grasping the young man warmly by the hand. "My lord of Oxford was just telling me that he thought you would be starting anon."
"Should I have gone without your God-speed?"
"I trust not indeed. But your game of chess, meseems, must have been very engrossing."
Lord Everingham felt himself changing colour. Fortunately his back was to the light, and the Duke could not have seen the slight start of alarm which followed his simple remark. In a flash Everingham had realized how true had been His Eminence's conjecture. Wessex had already heard of the interview in the audience chamber. The game of chess had undoubtedly proved a useful explanation for so unusual an incident.
"Oh! His Eminence is passionately fond of the game," rejoined Everingham as lightly as he could, "and I could not help but accede to his request for a final battle of skill with him, since probably I may not see him on my return."
But he felt His Grace's earnest eyes fixed searchingly upon him. A wild longing seized him to throw off the mantle of diplomacy, which became him so ill, and to give a word of timely warning to his friend. The sight of the beautiful boarhound, so faithful, so watchful, at the feet of his master, became almost intolerable to his overwrought mind. Perhaps he would have spoken even now, at this eleventh hour, when from the court outside there came the sharp sound of bugle-call.
Harry Plantagenet, roused from his light sleep, had pricked his ears.
"I fear me 'tis to horse, friend," said Wessex, with a light tone of sadness, "Marry! it likes me not to see you depart. Harry Plantagenet and I will miss you sorely in this dull place, and I will miss your loyal hand amongst so many enemies."
"Enemies, my dear lord!" protested Everingham warmly. "Look around this Great Hall at this moment. Now that the foreign ambassadors have departed, do you see aught but friends? Nay more, adherents, partisans, faithful subjects, an you choose," he added significantly.
"Friends to-day," mused His Grace, "enemies perhaps to-morrow."
"Impossible."
"Even if.. But by the Lord Harry, this is no time to talk of my affairs," rejoined Wessex light-heartedly. "Farewell, friends, and God-speed… Harry, make your bow to the most loyal man in England – you'll not see his like until he return from Scotland. In your ear, my dear lord, I pray you be not astonished if when that happy eventuality occurs, you find me no longer a free man. Come, Harry, shall we bid him adieu at the gates?"
He linked his arm in that of Everingham, the group of gentlemen parted to let him pass, then closed behind him, and followed him and his friend out of the hall. Every one was glad of a diversion from the oppressive atmosphere of the last few hours. Many murmured: "God bless Your Grace!" as he passed through the brilliant assembly exchanging a word, a merry jest with his friends, a courteous bow or gracious smile with the casual acquaintances.
His popularity at this moment was at its height. Nothing would have caused greater joy in England than the announcement of his plighted troth to the Queen. Yet if these gentlemen, who so eagerly pressed round him as he escorted his dearest friend through the hall, had been gifted with the knowledge of their fellow-creatures' innermost thoughts, they might have read in His Grace's heart the opening chapters of a romance which would have changed their enthusiasm into bitter disappointment. They would have seen that in that heart, wherein they hoped to see their Queen enthroned, there now reigned a dainty image, that of a young girl dressed in shimmering white, with ruddy golden hair falling loosely about her shoulders, and deep, dark eyes, now blue, now grey, now inscrutably black, the mirrors of a pure, innocent, joyous soul within.
As for Everingham, all his desire to warn Wessex had vanished with the latter's lightly spoken allusion to the incident of this afternoon. He was now only conscious of a desire to get away, and thus leave events to shape their course according to the dictates of my lord Cardinal.
Everything was ready for the departure. The gentlemen who composed the mission sent by Mary Tudor to the Queen Regent of Scotland were proceeding to Edinburgh by water. They would ride to Greenwich to-night, then embark in the early dawn.
The horses were pawing the ground impatiently; every one had assembled in the Fountain Court, which presented an animated and picturesque spectacle, with the crowd of servants and the numerous retinue which was to accompany the Earl of Pembroke to Scotland. A number of torch-bearers lent fantastic aspect to the scene, for a lively breeze had sprung up, blowing the fitful flames hither and thither, bringing into bold relief now the richly caparisoned steed of one of the noblemen, now the steel helmets of the military escort, anon throwing everything into deep, impenetrable shadow whilst touching with weird, red light some grotesque vane or leaden waterspout on the walls of the Palace.
The Earl of Pembroke took a long farewell from His Grace of Wessex. Himself one of the most fervent adherents of the Duke, he was longing for a word, a promise however vague, that the much-desired alliance would indeed soon take place.
Wessex lingered some time beside Everingham. He seemed strangely loath to part from his fondest friend just now. The crowd around him were chattering merrily, the young men feeling the usual, natural exhilaration of manhood at sight of this goodly cavalcade, and the sound of clattering arms, the champing of bits, and quick, sharp calls to assemble.
Then, at a given moment, one of the bays of King Henry's presence chamber was thrown open, and the Queen herself appeared at the window. A shout of welcome was raised, such as could only come from faithful and loyal hearts.
Mary was surrounded by some of her ladies. The strong light of the room was behind her, so that she appeared as a silhouette, dignified, rather stiff in her corseted panier of rich brocade, her head slightly bent forward as if in anxious search of some one in the crowd.
"God bless our Queen," said the Duke of Wessex loudly, and the words were taken up again and again by two hundred lusty throats, gentlemen and servants all alike, and the cry echoed against the massive walls of old Hampton Court like a solemn prayer.
Not a few voices then added: "God bless His Grace of Wessex!" The Queen had recognized the Duke's voice. When she heard this second cry, every one noticed that she pressed her hand to her heart, as if overcome with emotion. Then she waved an adieu from the window and hastily retired within.
The signal for departure was given. A few belated gentlemen quickly sprang to the stirrup – Everingham being among the last. With a deafening noise of clattering steel the military escort led the way, the halberds gleaming like tongues of flame in the torchlight as the men-at-arms lowered them in order to pass through the gates.
Then followed the Earl of Pembroke with Lord Everingham by his side, and the other gentlemen of the mission in close proximity. The retinue of servants and another detachment of men-at-arms completed the cortège.
Some of the younger men followed the cavalcade on foot through the gate and thence across the Base Court, even as far as the bridge and beyond. The older ones, however, began to disperse. With a sigh, the Duke of Wessex called to his dog, who had followed the exciting proceedings with the keenest canine enthusiasm.
"Ah, Harry, old friend!" he said with a tinge of sadness. "Why did not Providence fashion my Grace into some humbler personality? You and I would have been the happier, methinks."
Harry Plantagenet yawned ostentatiously in acquiescence, then he blinked, and seemed to say, as if in echo of his master's thoughts —
"Marry! but there are compensations, you know!"
"Only since this afternoon!" commented His Grace under his breath, as he finally turned his steps in the direction of his own apartments.
CHAPTER XXI
THE BLACK KNIGHT
As the Duke of Wessex was crossing one of the large rooms of the wing which divides the old Fountain Court from the Cloister Green, he suddenly heard himself called by name.
"Luck favours me indeed," said a voice from out the gloom. "His Grace of Wessex an I mistake not."
At this hour of the evening these rooms were usually deserted, and left but dimly illumined by a few wax tapers placed in tall, many-armed candelabra, the flickering light of which failed to penetrate into the distant corners of the vast, panelled chambers. Wessex could only see the dim outline of a man coming towards him.
"At your service, fair sir, whoever you may be," he responded lightly, "but by the Mass! meseems you must claim kinship with the feline species to be able to distinguish my unworthy self in the dark."
"Nay! 'twas my wish which fathered my thoughts. I had hoped to meet Your Grace here, and was on the look out."
"The Marquis de Suarez," rejoined Wessex, as the young Spaniard now came within the circle of light projected by the candelabra. "You wished to speak with me, sir?"
"I would claim this privilege of Your Grace's courtesy."
"Indeed, I am ever at your service," replied the Duke, not a little astonished at the request.
Since his first meeting with Don Miguel at East Molesey Fair he had only exchanged a very few words with the Spaniard, and the latter seemed even to have purposely avoided him during the past few days. To this His Grace had paid no attention. The foreign envoys at present staying in the Palace were exceedingly antipathetic to him, and beyond the social amenities of Court life he had held no intercourse with any of them.
Rivals all of them, they nevertheless joined issue with one another in their hostile attitude towards the man, who was the formidable stumbling-block to all their diplomatic intrigues.
The Duke himself, in spite of his haughty aloofness from party politics, knew full well how great was the enmity which his personality aroused in the minds of all the strangers at Mary's court.
He was certainly much more amused than disturbed by this generally hostile attitude towards himself, and many a time did the various ambassadors have to suffer, with seeming good-nature, the pointed and caustic shafts aimed at them by His Grace's ready wit.
No wonder, therefore, that Wessex looked with some suspicion on this sudden change of front on the part of one of his most avowed antagonists.
"How can I have the honour of serving an envoy of the King of Spain?" he continued lightly.
But Don Miguel appeared in no hurry to speak. His manner seemed to have completely altered. As a rule he was a perfect model of self-possession and easy confidence, with just a reflection of his distinguished chief's, the Cardinal's, own suavity of manner apparent in all his ways. Now he was obviously ill at ease, shy and nervous, and with a marked desire to be frank, yet too bashful to give vent to so boyish an outburst.
There was in his dark eyes, too, a look almost of appeal towards the Duke to meet his sudden access of friendliness half-way. All this Wessex had already noticed with the one quick glance which he cast at the young Spaniard. He motioned him to a chair and himself leant lightly against the edge of the table.
Don Miguel took this to be an encouragement to proceed.
"Firstly, your Grace's pardon if I should unwillingly transgress," he began.
"My pardon?" rejoined the Duke, much amused at the Marquis' obvious embarrassment. "'Tis yours already. But how transgress?"
"By the asking of a question which Your Grace might deem indiscreet."
"Nay, my lord," quoth the Duke gaily, "no question need be indiscreet, though answers often are."
"Your Grace is pleased to laugh.. but in this case.. I.. that is.. I hardly know how to put it.. yet I would assure Your Grace."
"By Our Lady, man!" cried Wessex with a slight show of impatience, "assure me no assurances, but tell me what you wish to say."
"Well then! since I have Your Grace's leave… My object is this… Court gossip has it that you are affianced to the Lady Ursula Glynde."
The Duke did not reply. Don Miguel looked up and saw a quaint smile hovering round His Grace's lips. The young Spaniard, though an earnest and even proficient reader of other men's thoughts, did not quite understand the meaning of that smile: it seemed wistful yet triumphant, full of gaiety and yet with a suspicion of that strange and delicious melancholy, which is never quite inseparable from a great happiness.
But as he seemingly was meeting with no rebuff, the Marquis continued more boldly —
"And.. but Your Grace must really pardon me… I hardly know how to put it so as not to appear impertinent.. but 'tis also said that you do not wish to claim the lady's hand."
"Marry!." rejoined the Duke with a laugh. Then he paused, as if in the act of recalling his somewhat roving thoughts, and said more coldly —
"You must pardon me, my lord, if I do not quite perceive in what manner this may concern you."
"I pray Your Grace to have patience with me yet a while longer. I will explain my purpose directly. For the moment I will entreat you, an you will, to answer my question. It is a matter of serious moment to me, and you would render me eternally your debtor."
None knew better in these days than did the high-born Spaniards, all the many little tricks of voice and gesture which go to make up the abstruse and difficult art of diplomacy. Don Miguel at this juncture looked so frank, so boyish, and withal so earnest, that the Duke of Wessex – himself the soul of truth and candour – never even suspected that the young man was but playing a part and enacting a scene, which he had rehearsed under the skilful management of His Eminence the Spanish Cardinal.
Wessex, ever ready to see the merry side of life, ever ready for gaiety and brightness, felt completely disarmed, glad enough to lay aside the cold reserve which the foreign envoys themselves had called forth in him. He liked the Marquis under this new semblance of boyish guilelessness, and returned his tone of deferential frankness with one of easy familiarity.
"The question, my lord, is somewhat difficult to answer," he said with mock seriousness, the while a gay laugh was dancing in his eyes. "You see, there are certain difficulties in the way. The Lady Ursula is a Glynde.. and all the Glyndes have brown eyes… Now at this moment I feel as if I could never love a brown eye again."
"The Lady Ursula is very beautiful," rejoined the Spaniard.
"Possibly – but you surprise me."
"Your Grace has never seen her?"
"Never, since she was out of her cradle."
"I have the advantage of Your Grace, then."
"You know her, my lord?."
"Intimately!" said Don Miguel, with what seemed an irresistible impulse.
Then he checked his enthusiasm with a visible effort, and stammered with a return of his previous nervousness —
"That is.. I."
"Yes?" queried the Duke.
"That is the purport of my importunity, my lord," said the young man, springing to his feet and speaking once more in tones of noble candour. "I would have asked Your Grace that, since you do not know the Lady Ursula, since you have no wish to claim her hand, if some one else."
"If the Lady Ursula honoured some one else than my unworthy self… Is that your meaning, my lord?" queried Wessex, as Don Miguel had made a slight pause in his impetuous speech.
"If I."
"You, my lord?"
"I would wish to know if I should be offending Your Grace?"
"Offending me?" cried Wessex joyfully. "Nay, my lord, why were you so long in telling me this gladsome news?.. Offending me?.. you have succeeded in taking a load from my conscience, my dear Marquis. So you love the Lady Ursula Glynde?.. Ye heavens! what a number of circumlocutions to arrive at this simple little fact! You love her.. she is very beautiful.. and she loves you. Where did you first see her, my lord?"
"At East Molesey Fair… Your Grace intervened.. you must remember!"
"Most inopportunely, meseems. I must indeed crave your pardon. And since then?"
"The acquaintanceship, perhaps somewhat unpleasantly begun, has ripened into.. friendship."
"And thence into love! Nay, you have my heartiest congratulations, my lord. The Glyndes are famous for their virtue, and since the Lady Ursula is beautiful, why! your Court will indeed be graced by such a pattern of English womanhood."
"Oh!" said the Spaniard, with a quick gesture of deprecation.
"Nay! you must have no fear, my lord. Since you have honoured me by consulting my feelings in the matter, it shall be my pride and my delight to further your cause, and that of the Lady Ursula.. if indeed she will deign to express her wishes to me… I hereby give you a gentleman's word of honour that I consider the promise, which she made to her father in her childhood, in no way binding upon her now… As for the future, I swear that I will obtain Her Majesty's consent to your immediate marriage."
"Nay! I pray you, not so fast!" laughed Don Miguel lightly. "Neither the Lady Ursula nor I have need of Her Majesty's consent.."
"But methought – "
"'Twas not I who spoke of marriage, remember!"
"Then you have completely bewildered me, my lord," rejoined Wessex with a sudden frown. "I understood – "
"That I am the proudest of men, certainly," quoth Don Miguel with a sarcastic curl of his sensual lip, "but 'twas Your Grace who spoke of the lady's virtue. I merely wished to know if I should be offending Your Grace if."
He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. The laugh grated unpleasantly on Wessex' ear, and the gesture savoured of impertinence. The Marquis' manner had suddenly undergone a change, which caused the Duke's every nerve to tingle.
"If what?" he queried curtly. "The devil! sir, cannot you say what you do mean?"
"Why should I," replied the Spaniard, "since your Grace has already guessed? You will own that I have acted en galant homme, by thinking of your wishes. You will not surely desire to champion that much-vaunted virtue of the Glyndes."
"Then what you mean, sir, is that."
"I cannot speak more plainly, my lord, for that among gentlemen is quite impossible. But rumours fly about quickly at Court, and I feared that Your Grace might have caught one, ere I had the chance of assuring you that I recognize the priority of your claim. But now you tell me that you have no further interest in the lady, so I am reassured… We foreigners, you know, take passing pleasures more lightly than you serious-minded English.. and if the lady be unattached.. and more than willing.. why should we play the part of Joseph?.. a ridiculous rôle at best, eh, my lord?.. and one, I think, which Your Grace would ever disdain to play… As for me, I am quite reassured.. Au revoir to Your Grace.."
And before Wessex had time to utter another word, Don Miguel, still laughing, went out of the room.
The Duke felt a little bewildered. The conversation had gone through such a sudden transition, that at the time, he had hardly realized whether it touched him deeply or not.
Owing to Ursula's girlish little ruse, he was totally unaware of her identity with the lady who had been the subject of this very distasteful discussion. To him Lady Ursula Glynde was both unknown and uninteresting. His meeting with beautiful, exquisite "Fanny" had driven all thoughts of other women from his mind.
But with all his volatile disposition, where women were concerned, the Duke of Wessex was nevertheless imbued with a strong and romantic feeling of chivalry towards the entire sex, and Don Miguel's disdainful allusions to the lady who might have been Duchess of Wessex had left his finger-tips itching with the desire to throw his glove in the impudent rascal's face.
Harry Plantagenet, who throughout the interview had openly expressed his disapproval of his master's interlocutor, gave an impatient little whine. He longed for the privacy of his own apartments, the warmth of the rugs laid out specially for him.
"Harry, old friend!" said Wessex thoughtfully, "what the devil, think you, that young reprobate meant?"
He took the dog's beautiful head between his hands and looked straight into the honest, faithful eyes of his dear and constant companion.
"Marry!" he continued more lightly, "you may well look doubtful, you wise philosopher, for you know the Glyndes as well as I do. You remember old Lady Annabel, whose very look would stop your tail from wagging, and Charles, stodgy, silent, serious Charles, who never drank, never laughed, had probably never seen a woman's ankle in his life. And then the Lady Ursula.. a Glynde.. do you mind me, old Harry?.. therefore as ugly, as a combination of virtue and Scotch descent can make any woman… Yet, if I caught the rascal's meaning, neither Scotch descent nor ill looks have proved a shield for the lady's virtue!.. Well, 'tis no business of ours, is it, old Harry? Let us live and let live… Perhaps Lady Ursula is not ugly.. perchance that unpleasant-looking Spaniard doth truly love her.. and who are we, Harry, you and I, that we should prove censorious? Let us to our apartments, friend, and meditate on woman's frailty and on our own.. especially on our own.. we are mere male creatures, and women are so adorable! even when they bristle with virtues like a hedgehog.. but like him too, are cushioned beneath those bristles with a hundred charming, fascinating sins… Come along, friend, and let us meditate why sin.. sin of a certain type, remember, should be so enchantingly tempting."
Harry Plantagenet was a philosopher. He had seen his master in this kind of mood before. He wagged his tail as if to express his approval of the broad principles thus submitted for his consideration, but at the same time he showed a distinct desire that his master should talk less and come more speedily to bed.
