*CHAPTER V.*
*HIS LITTLE NAN.*
"Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than Heaven; And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head." --SIR WALTER SCOTT.
"Be sure, Jane, to tell Valentine that I will have my gown of motleyvelvet ready for my wearing on the morrow; and bid him set silverbuttons thereto--and good plenty."
"Please it your Grace, Master Valentine did desire of me that I shouldsay unto you that he could not make ready the gown of motley asto-morrow, nor afore Thursday come."
"Could not?" The Duchess of Exeter's chiselled eyebrows were slightlyraised. "Could not? But he must."
"Please it your Grace, thus said he."
"Tell him it skills not[#] what he can. I say he shall."
[#] Matters not.
"Then belike there shall be more tailors had?"
"I care not how it be done, so it cost no money."
"But, an't like your Grace, the tailors will not work without money: andunless more be had, Master Valentine can never, his own self--without hesit up all night, nor scarce then--make an end of your Grace's gown byto-morrow."
"Let him sit up, then. Good lack! what ado is here over a sely[#]tailor!"
[#] Simple, mean.
"Your Grace mindeth, maybe, that you were set to have the murrey[#] gownby next Sunday?--and both two cannot be done."
[#] Plum-coloured.
"Cannot! always at _cannot_! Hold thine idle tongue. Of course it canbe done if I will have it so."
"Doubtless, Madam, if it please your Grace to pay more tailors."
"I will pay nobody. Ye will clean ruin me amongst you. "'Twas butyesterday I paid four thousand marks to a Lombard for jewelling. Yewould leave me never a cross[#] in my purse."
[#] Penny, divided by a cross that it might be easily broken intofourthings=farthings.
"Then, an' it please your Grace, what is to be done?" demanded thepractical Jane, who was one of the four chamberers of the Duchess.
"Gramercy, maid, burden not me withal!" testily exclaimed her royalmistress. "Go and ask at Dame Elizabeth Darcy, an' thou wist not whatto do. I tell thee, the motley must be made ready for to-morrow, andthe murrey by Sunday next: and how it shall be is no business of mine,so it cost not money. _It shall be_. See to it."
Poor Jane, who felt herself ordered to do the impossible, made one morefaint struggle with destiny.
"It should not like your Grace to bear that gown to-morrow?"
"This?" returned the Duchess contemptuously, glancing down at her dress,which was of dark blue satin, heavily trimmed with minever. "'Tis notfit to be seen. Hast lost thy wit? I tell thee, I must have a decentgown to put on. That idle Valentine hath left me never a one in mywardrobe. He is the laziest tyke that ever set needle."
"Please it your Grace, there is the broched[#] cloth of silver"----
[#] Figured.
"'Tis all frayed at the bottom. I warrant he hath not hemmed it anew."
"And the tawny velvet"----
"The which yon rascal Fulk spilt a glass of malmsey o'er. Tell DameElizabeth it must be docked of his wages."
"And the changeable[#] green velvet"----
[#] We retain changeable silk, under the name of shot silk; butchangeable velvet is lost.
"With a rent across the front breadth as wide as mine arm, and none ofyou idle hussies hath thought to mend it."
"And the russet figury velvet"----
"All the pile worn off--as shabby as can be."
"And the crimson and blue damask, and the purple tartaryn,[#] and themustredevilers,[#] and"----
[#] A kind of satinette, or satin Turk.
[#] A cloth, of which the name was derived either from _moitie develours_, or from being manufactured at Villars.
"Go thy ways for an impudent ne'er-do-well! I tell thee I will havethose two gowns--I _will have_ them! Let me hear no more of thyfoolery."
And away marched the Duchess, and left poor Jane standing in the middleof the room.
"It shall cost Master Valentine his place an' he do it not," mutteredshe to herself. "And he cannot do it--'tis not possible in the time."
"Then, were I Master Valentine, catch me essaying to compass it!" said avoice beside her.
"Dear heart, Marion! wouldst lose thy place?"
"I would lose this place, and be rare thankful to do it," responded thegirl addressed as Marion, who was another of the chamberers. "Ioft-times wish we were as the meynie,[#] and could be hence if wewould."
[#] Household servants.
The expression of Jane's face indicated that she thought such asentiment treasonable.
"What with her Grace, and what with Tamzine, it is not a dog's life welead!" continued Marion. "If the thing lay in mine hands, you shouldsee, but I would wed the first man that asked me, just to be out of it."
"So might you be worser off than now," suggested Jane.
"Could not!" said Marion expressively.
Jane shook her head as if she thought that very questionable.
"Men be queer matter," said she. "Now you can make out a woman."
"Good lack! think you making out is all?" replied Marion. "She is easyenough to make out, is Her Grace. So is Tamzine. But I love theircompany never a whit the more for that. Gramercy, there goeth my Lady'shandbell! I must away."
In an upper room in the same house two other girls were sitting. One,who sat at work in the window-seat, was so like Frideswide that we caneasily guess her to be Agnes Marston. She was a little quieter than hersister in manner, and a shade less good-looking.
The other girl sat in a large, handsome, curule chair, with anilluminated manuscript open on the table before her. Her face was aremarkable one. Her figure was extremely slender, thin almost toemaciation: but more striking than this was the wan white face, wheretwo hectic spots burned in the hollow cheeks, and the large dark blueeyes seemed of unnatural size and brilliance. A long-drawn sigh madeAgnes look up.
"Your Ladyship is weary, methinks," she said.
"I may well be thus," was the answer, as the head was leaned on the thinhand. "I was doing that which would weary an angel, for I was trying tounderstand God."
"How, dear my Lady?"
The white-faced girl lifted her head, and let her eyes meet those ofAgnes.
"It were to no good to speak in riddles," she said. "Agnes, you havedwelt in this house a full year, and you know the sorrows thereof aswell as I. Specially, you know my sorrows--you know that I live a lifewherein there is nothing to make the present happy, and the future isall full of a great dread. There is only one in all the world thatloves me, and I cannot go to him: and one that I love not, and thatloves not me, is about to be forced upon me whether I will or no. Whyshould I try to hide these things from you? You know them all. In allthe whole world that is, and in the life that is to be, there is not oneray of sunlight for me. Do you marvel, Agnes, if life looks black tomine eyes? Are you one of those surface seers, that reckon a womanshould be comforted for a breaking heart by a necklace of pearl, andthat she is a fool to weep for a lost friend if she have a new gown ofcrimson velvet?"
"No, indeed, Lady mine."
"Aye me!" sighed the Lady Anne. "If I had but been a carpenter's child,or of a gardener----that I could have welcomed him back at eve from hisdaily work, and kept his hearth bright, and might have loved and beenloved! I could have done without the pearls and the velvet, Agnes. ButI have them: and they be poor exchange for the other."
"Things will change one of these days, sweet my Lady. ''Tis a long lanehas no turning.'"
"It has been a long one, and there be eight years now since it turnedlast. Eight years, Agnes--more than half my life! And folks think itstrange that I care. They looked for me
, it should seem, to set mineheart on gewgaws, and to think more of the bidding to a dance than ofthe loss of a father. If I could see an end to it, I might take lessthought. But I can behold no turn coming save one, and that is for theworser."
Agnes knew that this allusion was to her approaching marriage.Certainly that was no source of congratulation. In the eyes of thewaiting-woman no less than the mistress, the handsome young Baron ofGroby, Thomas Grey, the eldest son of Queen Elizabeth, who had beenchosen as the future husband of the Lady Anne de Holand, was not a manto be regarded with any other sentiment than repugnance. Agnes had seenhim kick his dog out of the way, and never look whether he had hurt it,when the poor little spaniel, unaware of its master's mood, had presumedto request his attention when he was not disposed to give it.
"There is only one comfort thereanent. I shall, may-be, never live tobe wedded."
"Dear my Lady, pray you"----
"Does it look likely, Agnes?" said Lady Anne with a quietsmile,--scarcely a sad one this time.
The tears came to Agnes's eyes. She could not say that it did.
"No," resumed Lady Anne, after a short pause, and in a low voice, "Inever loved any thing yet that did not either die or go away from me."
"Except Jesus Christ," said Agnes softly. She knew that she was safe insaying it--that however the black clouds might hide the Sun ofRighteousness, He had risen, with healing in His wings, upon the younglonely heart beside her.
"Except Jesus Christ," echoed the girl reverently. "And yet--O Agnes,does He not know how hard it is to see nothing? to have nothing at allthat one can feel and touch, and clasp close to the heart? He hadfriends in this life--even He, the Man of Sorrows, was not quite withoutthem."
"Yet they all forsook Him, and fled."
"Aye. That was worse. But they came back again."
There were tears behind the voice.
"Dear my Lady, what causeth you be thus sorrowful this even?"
She broke down when that was asked. Pushing away the book, she bent herhead down on her clasped hands on the table, and sobbed as though herheart would break.
"Oh, it is all so dark!" she sobbed. "If we might have gone to Heaventogether, and have had each other there! Why are we kept parted? Agnes,I hate these signs of mine high estate, which seem as if they camebetwixt me and him--betwixt me and peace. If I had not been KingEdward's niece--Oh, if this awful war had never begun!"
Agnes had dropped her work, and sat looking out of the window. She didnot know what to say. Well enough she knew that religious platitudeswould do no good here. The Lady Anne was nearer God than she was, butjust now she was in the dark. She had dropped the conscious holding ofthe Father's hand, and she felt like a lost child left out in the cold.Agnes did not realise that much of her depression was physical; but shedid feel the necessity for offering some cheerful diversion to herthoughts.
"Dear my Lady, pray you, think on pleasanter gear."
"Wilt find it for me, Agnes?"
That was not an easy task. Agnes hesitated. But in a few moments morethe sorrowing girl had found it for herself.
"I suppose," she said more quietly, "I must lift up mine eyes unto thehills, above all the turns in the long road. We shall be together oneday, and with God. I shall not be long first. And set down at Christ'sfeet in the light of the Golden City, I count it shall not seem long towait for him."
The child was coming back into the light. Physically, the burst of tearshad relieved her.
"And yet, after all," she said, "I shall miss him, till he comes. Onecannot love one instead of another, even if God be that One. And tolove once is to love for ever."
"You can tell the Lord so, dear my Lady."
Lady Anne looked up with an expression of child-like trust andsimplicity in her eyes.
"Agnes, I am always telling Him."
"And is He not, then, always hearing you?"
Light came into the sad blue eyes.
"Aye, He must be always hearing. I thank thee."
The door opened, and Marion came in.
"Agnes, here is--O my Lady, I cry you mercy. I wist not you werehither."
"Make an end, Marion," said Lady Anne, with a smile.
"Under your Ladyship's pleasure.--Agnes, here is one that would havespeech of you. He hath brought a letter, if I err not, and for somecause is desirous to deliver the same into your own hand."
"Go and see to it, Agnes," said Lady Anne kindly: and Agnes left theroom, and descended a long flight of stairs to the base court, where thestranger awaited her.
The stranger! Ah, what a stranger he felt, standing there in themeanest part of his own house, among strange menials to whom his facewas unknown, for whom his voice had no authority. Did he think ofAnother who was Lord and Master of all, and who came unto His own, andHis own received Him not?
"You would speak with Agnes Marston, my master?" said a gentle voiceclose to him. "I am she."
The Duke turned quickly. He wore a long cloak, and a hat which could bepulled down so as to hide his face. For any eyes to recognise him wouldprobably be fatal to his errand. Yet the sensation of utter isolationwas oppressive, notwithstanding that.
"Gentle Mistress," said he, in a tone and manner which instantlyrevealed to Agnes that her visitor was of her own rank or above it, "Ibring you a letter from Mistress Frideswide Marston, in France, and Ipray you of your courtesy to give heed to that which is writ on theoutside thereof."
Agnes held the letter up to the lamp, and read--
"Good Sister, I do beseech you to do that which this bearer shallrequest of you; and herein fail you not, for the love of me."
"My sister desires me that I will do what you shall ask," she said."What ask you?"
"May I ask it with fewer ears by?" returned the Duke in a low tone.
Agnes nodded. That was a request only too intelligible in the fifteenthcentury. She took him aside to a small chamber where no other personwas at that moment.
"Now, Master, your will with me?"
"I am the Duke of Exeter," he said simply. "And I pray you, MistressAgnes, as you ever loved any human soul, that you will win for me privyspeech of the only one that loveth me--the Lady Anne, my daughter."
Agnes looked up, and saw the yearning, passionate hunger in the poorfather's eyes. She saw nothing more for a minute.
"Sir," she said then, "if I do it not, be assured that it shall be onlybecause I can no way compass it."
"God go with you!" was the reply.
Agnes hastened back to the room where she had left Lady Anne alone withMarion, and heard to her dismay the sharp tones of the Duchess as shecame near the door.
"Heard any ever the like!" cried Her Royal Highness. "'An' it pleaseme!' I do you plainly to wit, my dainty mistress, that it doth notplease me. I will have thee come down and speak with Master Grey. AndI will have thee don a better gown for it, belike.--Agnes Marston, gothis minute and lay out the Lady Anne's gown of purple velvet.--And gothou and don it. Dost hear?"
Lady Anne said no more, but her whole face betrayed intense dislike tothe task imposed upon her, when she caught the eye of Agnes. Thelanguage of the eye was well understood at that time, when the languageof the lips was often dangerous. Lady Anne saw in an instant that Agnesknew of some reason why she had better leave the room, and she followedher without another word.
Meanwhile the Duke of Exeter stood below, waiting to know the result ofhis appeal. Could Agnes convey it at all? and if she did, would Annecome? Last and saddest question of all, if she came, would it be thechild he knew, altered of course in person, but unchanged in heart? Atlast he could keep still no longer. Plantagenet blood was in his veins,and it was a habit of all the race, when suffering from mentalexcitement, to pace up and down like caged tigers. He had sufficientexcuse in the cold of a February evening, and he yielded to the impulse,pausing at every sound to listen--till the door was flung open suddenly,and a tall, slight maiden, robed in violet velvet and decked withjewels, dashed
into the room, and flung herself into his arms with aburst of passionate tears. Enough! Enough for the father's heart! Hislittle Nan had come back to him.
When the first wave had broken, he lifted the young head with one hand,and looked long and tenderly on the beloved face. And at the firstglance his heart sank down, lower than it had ever been.
Come, but not to stay. Bound on a longer journey than from England toFrance--than from earth to stars. He held his darling close clasped inhis arms, but it was probably for the last time. Verily for her theBridegroom waited, but the bridal was not of earth.
"Nan!" broke from the father's lips, in tones more eloquent than avolume would have been. "Little Nan!"
"I would I were your little Nan again," she said. "We were happy then,my Lord--at least I was."
"I never was," was the sad answer. "I only came near enough to see thatI could have been. If it had been God's will!"
"It will be, my Lord," replied Anne, brightly. "'_Satiabor cumapparuerit gloria tua_.[#]'"
[#] Psalm xvii. 15.
"Dost know, little Nan, that thou didst learn that Psalm at mineinstance? But when will it be, my darling?--when? It is such a longdark night without thee."
Yet as he said the words, the thought smote him to the heart,--Not long,not long for one of them!
"When God's will is," she responded simply. "We must wait, my Lord. Oh,this awful war! had it never begun!"
She did not realise that they were parted by any but politicalreasons--mournful necessities, which might come to an end some time. Itwas better she should not.
"Little Nan," said the Duke, "I love not 'my Lord' from thy lips. Callme Father."
The request was an unusual one. But she looked up and responded as hewished, with tears glistening in the violet eyes.
"You will come and see me again, Father?"
"I will come and see thee again," he echoed--well knowing, as he spoke,that the interview was not likely to be held on the earthly side of thecold river. But surely he would meet her again; and it would be he thatshould come to her. There would be room in the halls above, and no needto employ a third person, nor to use secrecy and stratagem in order tomeet. Up from the core of his soul went the passionate cry, "Let us gotogether! Make no tarrying, O my God!" He knew now at least, if he hadnever known it before, that there was to be no paradise for him outsidethe Paradise of God.
"My Lady!" said the rather nervous voice of Agnes at the door. "I cryyou verily mercy, but--Her Grace is calling for you."
None of them dared to disregard that summons.
One more last embrace! One more last look! From the Duke's eyes
"No tears fell, but a gaze fixed, long, That memory might print the face On the heart's ever-vacant space With a sun-finger, sharp and strong."
His very soul seemed to dissolve itself upon her head as he gave her thelast blessing. She tore herself away, and stumbling with tear-blindedeyes over her velvet train, went up to receive a sharp scolding forloitering from the Duchess, and some very cold ceremonial speeches fromher affianced.
All was over. There was nothing left for that desolate man. Nothing towhich he could look forward! There had been just that one hope, and itwas gone. Nothing was left now to hope or fear.
He had come on foot and unattended, in order to avoid recognition.Mechanically he turned to the river stairs, called a boat, and was rowedup to Westminster. As he wearily mounted the Palace stairs, the Earl ofPembroke met him.
"Ah, my very good Lord of Exeter! Whither away?"
"I know not, and care less."
"Gramercy! what aileth you this starlight even?"
"Is it starlight?" and the Duke lifted his eyes to the glowing heavens,clear in the frosty atmosphere. "I had not observed it."
"Good lack! you must be in the blues to-night. More shame for you! Hereis nought but making ready for the Queen, whom my Lord of Warwick ridethfor to meet as to-morrow. 'Tis thought the wind may give her leave tocome across to-night."
"I do desire it, right heartily."
"Heigh-ho! do you desire anything right heartily, with that face?" saidEarl Jaspar, laughing. "Come, my good Lord, what aileth you?"
"My Lord, I cry you mercy, for I wis well I am not merry company. Ihave this night spoken, as I think, a long farewell to mine only child.Let me pass, I pray you, till I can be more like my fellows, and comeinto your company without spoiling your mirth--if I ever can."
Jaspar stood looking at his friend with eyes of utter want ofcomprehension. Exeter "spoke to him who never had a child," and who,moreover, had but little sympathy with human sorrow. It wasinconceivable to Jaspar why a man should bring his private sorrows intohis political rejoicings, while to Exeter the difficulty would have beento allow the political joy to temper the private sorrow. Nor was Warwicka whit more sympathising. To weep for a woman, or anything thatconcerned one, was his emblem for masculine weakness of the extremesttype. Exeter passed on, and sought refuge in his own chamber, where helay down, but did not sleep, that night.
But when, the next morning, he presented himself as usual in thepresence-chamber, he found that the Palace of Westminster held oneChrist-like heart--a heart more at home in the house of mourning than inthe house of feasting,--
"A heart at leisure from itself, To soothe and sympathise."
Through the score of eager, triumphant faces in the presence-chamber,the face upon which grief was written was instantly visible to thoseeyes which were worth so little for earthly foresight, and were so richtoward God.
"My Lord of Exeter! The King calls for you."
The King himself was that day at his happiest--with the last earthlyhappiness which he was ever to know. He was at home again--and his wasa nature which clung to accustomed things; and he was expecting thedaily arrival of his wife and son, when--as he and every bodybelieved--all would again flow smoothly, and they would live happilyever after. But Henry was one of those rare souls who cannot be happytill they have made others so.
"I pray you, come this way, my good Lord," said the King. "There istrouble in your eyes. Is it aught I may remedy?"
"I thank your Highness heartily; but I fear not. There be evils thatnone save the King of kings may deal withal."
Exeter had not meant to say another word. But in five minutes--hescarcely knew how--he found himself telling the whole story of hissorrow to the tender soul which shone in those royal eyes.
"I need not tell you, my good Lord," said the gentle comforter, "that hewere an ill soldier that should lie down to sleep ere the battle werewon. It will not be long ere the battle is over. It seems to me attimes"--and the dark eyes grew dreamy, as they were very wont to do--"asif it were only such a little while! And then God shall give us back toeach other. We have only to wait for Him."
"My Lord, I cry your Highness mercy, but it looks to me this night avery, very long while."
The King smiled on his godson. The spiritual relationship between themmade it only natural that the one should offer instruction and comfortto the other. He said, "_Unus dies apud Dominum sicut mille anni, etmille anni sicut dies unus_."[#]
[#] 2 Peter iii. 8.
"Ah, Sire!" said Exeter sadly, "the one day for Him, but for us thethousand years."
The response came quickly. "'_Ego vobiscum sum omnibus dielus_.'"[#]
[#] Matt. xxviii. 20.
"We cannot see our Lord, Sire."
"He can see us."
"True: yet, my gracious Lord"----
"My son," said the King tenderly, "He hath written down a word of setpurpose for thee. '_Quomodo miseretur pater jiliorum, misertus estDominus timentibus se_.' Muse thou thereon, and God lead thee into Hispeace."[#]
[#] Psalm ciii. 13.
He had said enough, for the Word of God in his lips had reached theheart of the mourner. It was nothing new--it had been sung in Exeter'shearing a hundred times--but it came this time with power. Did God feelfor him just as he felt for that one dar
ling child over whom he wasyearning and lamenting? It said just that. What right had he to waterit down, and make it mean something vague and metaphysical? At last hehad found the man who understood him. The King was a father himself,and a very loving one. And had he not at last found the God whounderstood him?--who was indeed his Father, who loved him as he lovedhis little Nan?
Yes, it would be only a little while. Ah, how little for him who spoke!Three short months, into which was to be poured an ocean of livingagony, and then he should see God, and be at peace for ever. And to himwho heard, only a little longer. He had but to wait for God.