CHAPTER III.
VIRTUOUS RESOLVES SUBMITTED TO THE TEST OF VANITY AND THE WORLD.
On reaching his own house, Hastings learned that the court was still
at Shene. He waited but till the retinue which his rank required were
equipped and ready, and reached the court, from which of late he had
found so many excuses to absent himself, before night. Edward was
then at the banquet, and Hastings was too experienced a courtier to
disturb him at such a time. In a mood unfit for companionship, he
took his way to the apartments usually reserved for him, when a
gentleman met him by the way, and apprised him, with great respect,
that the Lord Scales and Rivers had already appropriated those
apartments to the principal waiting-lady of his countess,--but that
other chambers, if less commodious and spacious, were at his command.
Hastings had not the superb and more than regal pride of Warwick and
Montagu; but this notice sensibly piqued and galled him.
"My apartments as Lord Chamberlain, as one of the captain-generals in
the king's army, given to the waiting-lady of Sir Anthony Woodville's
wife! At whose orders, sir?"
"Her highness the queen's; pardon me, my lord," and the gentleman,
looking round, and sinking his voice, continued, "pardon me, her
highness added, 'If my Lord Chamberlain returns not ere the week ends,
he may find not only the apartment, but the office, no longer free.'
My lord, we all love you--forgive my zeal, and look well if you would
guard your own."
"Thanks, sir. Is my lord of Gloucester in the palace?"
"He is,--and in his chamber. He sits not long at the feast."
"Oblige me by craving his grace's permission to wait on him at
leisure; I attend his answer here."
Leaning against the wall of the corridor, Hastings gave himself up to
other thoughts than those of love. So strong is habit, so powerful
vanity or ambition, once indulged, that this puny slight made a sudden
revulsion in the mind of the royal favourite; once more the agitated
and brilliant court life stirred and fevered him,--that life, so
wearisome when secure, became sweeter when imperilled. To counteract
his foes, to humble his rivals, to regain the king's countenance, to
baffle, with the easy art of his skilful intellect, every hostile
stratagem,--such were the ideas that crossed and hurtled themselves,
and Sibyll was forgotten.
The gentleman reappeared. "Prince Richard besought my lord's presence
with loving welcome;" and to the duke's apartment went Lord Hastings.
Richard, clad in a loose chamber robe, which concealed the defects of
his shape, rose from before a table covered with papers, and embraced
Hastings with cordial affection.
"Never more gladly hail to thee, dear William. I need thy wise
counsels with the king, and I have glad tidings for thine own ear."
"Pardieu, my prince; the king, methinks, will scarce heed the counsels
of a dead man."
"Dead?"
"Ay. At court it seems men are dead,--their rooms filled, their
places promised or bestowed,--if they come not, morn and night, to
convince the king that they are alive." And Hastings, with
constrained gayety, repeated the information he had received.
"What would you, Hastings?" said the duke, shrugging his shoulders,
but with some latent meaning in his tone. "Lord Rivers were nought in
himself; but his lady is a mighty heiress, [Elizabeth secured to her
brother, Sir Anthony, the greatest heiress in the kingdom, in the
daughter of Lord Scales,--a wife, by the way, who is said to have been
a mere child at the time of the marriage.] and requires state, as she
bestows pomp. Look round, and tell me what man ever maintained
himself in power without the strong connections, the convenient dower,
the acute, unseen, unsleeping woman-influence of some noble wife? How
can a poor man defend his repute, his popular name, that airy but all
puissant thing we call dignity or station, against the pricks and
stings of female intrigue and female gossip? But he marries, and, lo,
a host of fairy champions, who pinch the rival lozels unawares: his
wife hath her army of courtpie and jupon, to array against the dames
of his foes! Wherefore, my friend, while thou art unwedded, think not
to cope with Lord Rivers, who hath a wife with three sisters, two
aunts, and a score of she-cousins!"
"And if," replied Hastings, more and more unquiet under the duke's
truthful irony,--"if I were now to come to ask the king permission to
wed--"
"If thou wert, and the bride-elect were a lady with power and wealth
and manifold connections, and the practice of a court, thou wouldst be
the mightiest lord in the kingdom since Warwick's exile."
"And if she had but youth, beauty, and virtue?"
"Oh, then, my Lord Hastings, pray thy patron saint for a war,--for in
peace thou wouldst be lost amongst the crowd. But truce to these
jests; for thou art not the man to prate of youth, virtue, and such
like, in sober earnest, amidst this work-day world, where nothing is
young and nothing virtuous;--and listen to grave matters."
The duke then communicated to Hastings the last tidings received of
the machinations of Warwick. He was in high spirits; for those last
tidings but reported Margaret's refusal to entertain the proposition
of a nuptial alliance with the earl, though, on the other hand, the
Duke of Burgundy, who was in constant correspondence with his spies,
wrote word that Warwick was collecting provisions, from his own means,
for more than sixty thousand men; and that, with Lancaster or without,
the earl was prepared to match his own family interest against the
armies of Edward.
"And," said Hastings, "if all his family joined with him, what foreign
king could be so formidable an invader? Maltravers and the Mowbrays,
Fauconberg, Westmoreland, Fitzhugh, Stanley, Bonville, Worcester--"
"But happily," said Gloucester, "the Mowbrays have been allied also to
the queen's sister; Worcester detests Warwick; Stanley always murmurs
against us, a sure sign that he will fight for us; and Bonville--I
have in view a trusty Yorkist to whom the retainers of that House
shall be assigned. But of that anon. What I now wish from thy wisdom
is, to aid me in rousing Edward from his lethargy; he laughs at his
danger, and neither communicates with his captains nor mans his
coasts. His courage makes him a dullard."
After some further talk on these heads, and more detailed account of
the preparations which Gloucester deemed necessary to urge on the
king, the duke, then moving his chair nearer to Hastings, said with a
smile,--
"And now, Hastings, to thyself: it seems that thou hast not heard the
news which reached us four days since. The Lord Bonville is dead,--
died three months ago at his manor house in Devon. [To those who have
read the "Paston Letters" it will not seem strange that in that day
the death of a nobleman at his country seat should be so long in
reaching the metropolis,--the ordinary purveyors of communication were
the itinerant attendants of fairs; and a father might be ignorant for
months together of the death of his son.] Thy Katherine is free, and
in London. Well, man, where is thy joy?"
"Time is, time was!" said Hastings, gloomily. "The day has passed
when this news could rejoice me."
"Passed! nay, thy good stars themselves have fought for thee in delay.
Seven goodly manors swell the fair widow's jointure; the noble dowry
she brought returns to her. Her very daughter will bring thee power.
Young Cecily Bonville [afterwards married to Dorset], the heiress,
Lord Dorset demands in betrothal. Thy wife will be mother-in-law to
thy queen's son; on the other hand, she is already aunt to the Duchess
of Clarence; and George, be sure, sooner or later, will desert
Warwick, and win his pardon. Powerful connections, vast possessions,
a lady of immaculate name and surpassing beauty, and thy first love!--
(thy hand trembles!)--thy first love, thy sole love, and thy last!"
"Prince--Prince! forbear! Even if so--In brief, Katherine loves me
not!"
"Thou mistakest! I have seen her, and she loves thee not the less
because her virtue so long concealed the love." Hastings uttered an
exclamation of passionate joy, but again his face darkened.
Gloucester watched him in silence; besides any motive suggested by the
affection he then sincerely bore to Hastings, policy might well
interest the duke in the securing to so loyal a Yorkist the hand and
the wealth of Lord Warwick's sister; but, prudently not pressing the
subject further, he said, in an altered and careless voice, "Pardon me
if I have presumed on matters on which each man judges for himself.
But as, despite all obstacle, one day or other Anne Nevile shall be
mine, it would have delighted me to know a near connection in Lord
Hastings. And now the hour grows late, I prithee let Edward find thee
in his chamber."
When Hastings attended the king, he at once perceived that Edward's
manner was changed to him. At first, he attributed the cause to the
ill offices of the queen and her brother; but the king soon betrayed
the true source of his altered humour.
"My lord," he said abruptly, "I am no saint, as thou knowest; but
there are some ties, par amour, which, in my mind, become not knights
and nobles about a king's person."
"My liege, I arede you not."
"Tush, William!" replied the king, more gently, "thou hast more than
once wearied me with application for the pardon of the nigromancer
Warner,--the whole court is scandalized at thy love for his daughter.
Thou hast absented thyself from thine office on poor pretexts! I know
thee too well not to be aware that love alone can make thee neglect
thy king,--thy time has been spent at the knees or in the arms of this
young sorceress! One word for all times,--he whom a witch snares
cannot be a king's true servant! I ask of thee as a right, or as a
grace, see this fair ribaude no more! What, man, are there not ladies
enough in merry England, that thou shouldst undo thyself for so
unchristian a fere?"
"My king! how can this poor maid have angered thee thus?"
"Knowest thou not"--began the king, sharply, and changing colour as he
eyed his favourite's mournful astonishment,--"ah, well!" he muttered
to himself, "they have been discreet hitherto, but how long will they
be so? I am in time yet. It is enough,"--he added, aloud and
gravely--"it is enough that our learned [it will be remembered that
Edward himself was a man of no learning] Bungey holds her father as a
most pestilent wizard, whose spells are muttered for Lancaster and the
rebel Warwick; that the girl hath her father's unholy gifts, and I lay
my command on thee, as liege king, and I pray thee, as loving friend,
to see no more either child or sire! Let this suffice--and now I will
hear thee on state matters."
Whatever Hastings might feel, he saw that it was no time to venture
remonstrance with the king, and strove to collect his thoughts, and
speak indifferently on the high interests to which Edward invited him;
but he was so distracted and absent that he made but a sorry
counsellor, and the king, taking pity on him, dismissed his
chamberlain for the night.
Sleep came not to the couch of Hastings; his acuteness perceived that
whatever Edward's superstition, and he was a devout believer in
witchcraft, some more worldly motive actuated him in his resentment to
poor Sibyll. But as we need scarcely say that neither from the
abstracted Warner nor his innocent daughter had Hastings learned the
true cause, he wearied himself with vain conjectures, and knew not
that Edward involuntarily did homage to the superior chivalry of his
gallant favourite, when he dreaded that, above all men, Hastings
should be made aware of the guilty secret which the philosopher and
his child could tell. If Hastings gave his name and rank to Sibyll,
how powerful a weight would the tale of a witness now so obscure
suddenly acquire!
Turning from the image of Sibyll, thus beset with thoughts of danger,
embarrassment, humiliation, disgrace, ruin, Lord Hastings recalled the
words of Gloucester; and the stately image of Katherine, surrounded
with every memory of early passion, every attribute of present
ambition, rose before him; and he slept at last, to dream not of
Sibyll and the humble orchard, but of Katherine in her maiden bloom,
of the trysting-tree by the halls of Middleham, of the broken ring, of
the rapture and the woe of his youth's first high-placed love.
