CHAPTER III.
THE SISTERS.
The next morning, at an hour when modern beauty falls into its first
sickly sleep, Isabel and Anne conversed on the same terrace, and near
the same spot, which had witnessed their father's meditations the day
before. They were seated on a rude bench in an angle of the wall,
flanked by a low, heavy bastion. And from the parapet their gaze
might have wandered over a goodly sight, for on a broad space, covered
with sand and sawdust, within the vast limits of the castle range, the
numerous knights and youths who sought apprenticeship in arms and
gallantry under the earl were engaged in those martial sports which,
falling elsewhere in disuse, the Last of the Barons kinglily
maintained. There, boys of fourteen, on their small horses, ran
against each other with blunted lances. There, those of more advanced
adolescence, each following the other in a circle, rode at the ring;
sometimes (at the word of command from an old knight who had fought at
Agincourt, and was the preceptor in these valiant studies) leaping
from their horses at full speed, and again vaulting into the saddle.
A few grim old warriors sat by to censure or applaud. Most skilled
among the younger was the son of Lord Montagu; among the maturer, the
name of Marmaduke Nevile was the most often shouted. If the eye
turned to the left, through the barbican might be seen flocks of
beeves entering to supply the mighty larder; and at a smaller postern,
a dark crowd of mendicant friars, and the more destitute poor, waited
for the daily crumbs from the rich man's table. What need of a poor-
law then? The baron and the abbot made the parish! But not on these
evidences of wealth and state turned the eyes, so familiar to them,
that they woke no vanity, and roused no pride.
With downcast looks and a pouting lip, Isabel listened to the silver
voice of Anne.
"Dear sister, be just to Clarence. He cannot openly defy his king and
brother. Believe that he would have accompanied our uncle and cousin
had he not deemed that their meditation would be more welcome, at
least to King Edward, without his presence."
"But not a letter! not a line!"
"Yet when I think of it, Isabel, are we sure that he even knew of the
visit of the archbishop and his brother?"
"How could he fail to know?"
"The Duke of Gloucester last evening told me that the king had sent
him southward."
"Was it about Clarence that the duke whispered to thee so softly by
the oriel window?"
"Surely, yes," said Anne, simply. "Was not Richard as a brother to us
when we played as children on yon greensward?"
"Never as a brother to me,--never was Richard of Gloucester one whom I
could think of without fear and even loathing," answered Isabel,
quickly.
It was at this turn in the conversation that the noiseless step of
Richard himself neared the spot, and hearing his own name thus
discourteously treated, he paused, screened from their eyes by the
bastion in the angle.
"Nay, nay, sister," said Anne; "what is there in Richard that
misbeseems his princely birth?"
"I know not, but there is no youth in his eye and in his heart. Even
as a child he had the hard will and the cold craft of gray hairs.
Pray Saint Mary you give me not Gloucester for a brother!"
Anne sighed and smiled. "Ah, no," she said, after a short pause,
"when thou art Princess of Clarence may I--"
"May thou what?"
"Pray for thee and thine in the house of God! Ah, thou knowest not,
sweet Isabel, how often at morn and even mine eyes and heart turn to
the spires of yonder convent!" She rose as she said this, her lip
quivered, and she moved on in the opposite direction to that in which
Richard stood, still unseen, and no longer within his hearing. Isabel
rose also, and hastening after her, threw her arms round Anne's neck,
and kissed away the tears that stood in those meek eyes.
"My sister, my Anne! Ah, trust in me, thou hast some secret, I know
it well,--I have long seen it. Is it possible that thou canst have
placed thy heart, thy pure love--Thou blushest! Ah, Anne! Anne! thou
canst not have loved beneath thee?"
"Nay," said Anne, with a spark of her ancestral fire lighting her meek
eyes through its tears, "not beneath me, but above. What do I say!
Isabel, ask me no more. Enough that it is a folly, a dream, and that
I could smile with pity at myself to think from what light causes love
and grief can spring."
"Above thee!" repeated Isabel, in amaze; "and who in England is above
the daughter of Earl Warwick? Not Richard of Gloucester? If so,
pardon my foolish tongue."
"No, not Richard,--though I feel kindly towards him, and his sweet
voice soothes me when I listen,--not Richard. Ask no more."
"Oh, Anne, speak, speak!--we are not both so wretched? Thou lovest
not Clarence? It is--it must be!"
"Canst thou think me so false and treacherous,--a heart pledged to
thee? Clarence! Oh, no!"
"But who then--who then?" said Isabel, still suspiciously. "Nay, if
thou wilt not speak, blame thyself if I must still wrong thee."
Thus appealed to, and wounded to the quick by Isabel's tone and eye,
Anne at last with a strong effort suppressed her tears, and, taking
her sister's hand, said in a voice of touching solemnity, "Promise,
then, that the secret shall be ever holy; and, since I know that it
will move thine anger--perhaps thy scorn--strive to forget what I will
confess to thee."
Isabel for answer pressed her lips on the hand she held; and the
sisters, turning under the shadow of a long row of venerable oaks,
placed themselves on a little mound, fragrant with the violets of
spring. A different part of the landscape beyond was now brought in
view; calmly slept in the valley the roofs of the subject town of
Middleham, calmly flowed through the pastures the noiseless waves of
Ure. Leaning on Isabel's bosom, Anne thus spake, "Call to mind, sweet
sister, that short breathing-time in the horrors of the Civil War,
when a brief peace was made between our father and Queen Margaret. We
were left in the palace--mere children that we were--to play with the
young prince, and the children in Margaret's train."
"I remember."
"And I was unwell and timid, and kept aloof from the sports with a
girl of my own years, whom I think--see how faithful my memory!--they
called Sibyll; and Prince Edward, Henry's son, stealing from the rest,
sought me out; and we sat together, or walked together alone, apart
from all, that day and the few days we were his mother's guests. Oh,
if you could have seen him and heard him then,--so beautiful, so
gentle, so wise beyond his years, and yet so sweetly sad; and when we
parted, he bade me ever love him, and placed his ring on my finger,
and wept,--as we kissed each other, as children will."
"Children! ye were infants!" exclaimed Isabel, whose wonder seemed
increased by this simple tale.
"Infant though I was, I felt as if my heart would break when I left
him; and then the wars ensued; and do you not remember how ill I was,
and like to die, when our House triumphed, and the prince and heir of
Lancaster was driven into friendless exile? From that hour my fate
was fixed. Smile if you please at such infant folly, but children
often feel more deeply than later years can weet of."
"My sister, this is indeed a wilful invention of sorrow for thine own
scourge. Why, ere this, believe me, the boy-prince hath forgotten thy
very name."
"Not so, Isabel," said Anne, colouring, and quickly, "and perchance,
did all rest here, I might have outgrown my weakness. But last year,
when we were at Rouen with my father--"
"Well?"
"One evening on entering my chamber, I found a packet,--how left I
know not, but the French king and his suite, thou rememberest, made
our house almost their home,--and in this packet was a picture, and on
its back these words, Forget not the exile who remembers thee!"
"And that picture was Prince Edward's?"
Anne blushed, and her bosom heaved beneath the slender and high-laced
gorget. After a pause, looking round her, she drew forth a small
miniature, which lay on the heart that beat thus sadly, and placed it
in her sister's hands.
"You see I deceive you not, Isabel. And is not this a fair excuse
for--"
She stopped short, her modest nature shrinking from comment upon the
mere beauty that might have won the heart. And fair indeed was the
face upon which Isabel gazed admiringly, in spite of the stiff and
rude art of the limner; full of the fire and energy which
characterized the countenance of the mother, but with a tinge of the
same profound and inexpressible melancholy that gave its charm to the
pensive features of Henry VI.,--a face, indeed, to fascinate a young
eye, even if not associated with such remembrances of romance and
pity.
Without saying a word, Isabel gave back the picture; but she pressed
the hand that took it, and Anne was contented to interpret the silence
into sympathy.
"And now you know why I have so often incurred your anger by
compassion for the adherents of Lancaster; and for this, also, Richard
of Gloucester hath been endeared to me,--for fierce and stern as he
may be called, he hath ever been gentle in his mediation for that
unhappy House."
"Because it is his policy to be well with all parties. My poor Anne,
I cannot bid you hope; and yet, should I ever wed with Clarence, it
may be possible--that--that--but you in turn will chide me for
ambition."
"How?"
"Clarence is heir to the throne of England, for King Edward has no
male children; and the hour may arrive when the son of Henry of
Windsor may return to his native land, not as sovereign, but as Duke
of Lancaster, and thy hand may reconcile him to the loss of a crown."
"Would love reconcile thee to such a loss, proud Isabel?" said Anne,
shaking her head, and smiling mournfully.
"No," answered Isabel, emphatically.
"And are men less haught than we?" said Anne. "Ah, I know not if I
could love him so well could he resign his rights, or even could he
regain them. It is his position that gives him a holiness in my eyes.
And this love, that must be hopeless, is half pity and half respect."
At this moment a loud shout arose from the youths in the yard, or
sporting-ground, below, and the sisters, startled, and looking up, saw
that the sound was occasioned by the sight of the young Duke of
Gloucester, who was standing on the parapet near the bench the
demoiselles had quitted, and who acknowledged the greeting by a wave
of his plumed cap, and a lowly bend of his head; at the same time the
figures of Warwick and the archbishop, seemingly in earnest
conversation, appeared at the end of the terrace. The sisters rose
hastily, and would have stolen away, but the archbishop caught a
glimpse of their robes, and called aloud to them. The reverent
obedience, at that day, of youth to relations left the sisters no
option but to advance towards their uncle, which they did with demure
reluctance.
"Fair brother," said the archbishop, "I would that Gloucester were to
have my stately niece instead of the gaudy Clarence."
"Wherefore?"
"Because he can protect those he loves, and Clarence will ever need a
protector."
"I like George not the less for that," said Warwick, "for I would not
have my son-in-law my master."
"Master!" echoed the archbishop, laughing; "the Soldan of Babylon
himself, were he your son-in-law, would find Lord Warwick a tolerably
stubborn servant!"
"And yet," said Warwick, also laughing, but with a franker tone,
"beshrew me, but much as I approve young Gloucester, and deem him the
hope of the House of York, I never feel sure, when we are of the same
mind, whether I agree with him, or whether he leadeth me. Ah, George!
Isabel should have wedded the king, and then Edward and I would have
had a sweet mediator in all our quarrels. But not so hath it been
decreed."
There was a pause.
"Note how Gloucester steals to the side of Anne. Thou mayst have him
for a son-in-law, though no rival to Clarence. Montagu hath hinted
that the duke so aspires."
"He has his father's face--well," said the earl, softly. "But yet,"
he added, in an altered and reflective tone, "the boy is to me a
riddle. That he will be bold in battle and wise in council I foresee;
but would he had more of a young man's honest follies! There is a
medium between Edward's wantonness and Richard's sanctimony; and he
who in the heyday of youth's blood scowls alike upon sparkling wine
and smiling woman, may hide in his heart darker and more sinful
fancies. But fie on me! I will not wrongfully mistrust his father's
son. Thou spokest of Montagu; he seems to have been mighty cold to
his brother's wrongs,--ever at the court, ever sleek with Villein and
Woodville."
"But the better to watch thy interests,--I so counselled him."
"A priest's counsel! Hate frankly or love freely is a knight's and
soldier's motto. A murrain on all doubledealing!"
The archbishop shrugged his shoulders, and applied to his nostrils a
small pouncet-box of dainty essences.
"Come hither, my haughty Isabel," said the prelate, as the demoiselles
now drew near. He placed his niece's arm within his own, and took her
aside to talk of Clarence; Richard remained with Anne, and the young
cousins were joined by Warwick. The earl noted in silence the soft
address of the eloquent prince, and his evident desire to please Anne.
And strange as it may seem, although he had hitherto regarded Richard
with admiration and affection, and although his pride for both
daughters coveted alliances not less than royal, yet, in contemplating
Gloucester for the first time as a probable suitor to his daughter
(and his favourite daughter), the anxiety of a father sharpened his
penetration, and placed the character of Richard before him in a
different point from that in which he had hitherto looked only on the
fearless heart and accomplished wit of his royal godson.
