CHAPTER XIX.
Clouds roll over the sky; the large rain drops descend; the lightningflashes; the thunder rolls along the verge of heaven; darkness andtempests rage above; and ruin and desolation seem to reign below. Theyhave their hour, and pass away. Often the clouds roll on to somedistant bourn, leaving the sky clear, the sun smiling brighter thanever, the blades of grass gemmed with the diamond drops, the earth allfresh, and the birds all singing. But there are other times, when,although the fierceness of the tempest is over, the streaming delugesuspended, the torch of the lightning quenched, and the angry voice ofthe thunder hushed, a heavy boding cloud remains behind, hiding thebrightness of the face of heaven, and threatening fresh storms tocome.
Thus it is too with the human heart. In the spring-tide of ourlife--in those gay early years, when the merry rays of the sunshinyheart dance gleam-like with the storms and clouds of life, the tempestof passion or of sorrow is soon swept away, and the universe of theheart resumes its brightness. But there comes a time when the stormfalling upon life's decline--I speak not of mere years, but at theepoch of each man's destined change--the spirit cannot cast off theshadow of the cloud, even when the eyes are dried, and the lightningpang of anguish or the terror speaking thunder of retribution arestaid for the hour.
Thus was it with Richard. His son, his only son, his beloved, wasgone. The fountain of hope and expectation was dried up. For him, andfor his future, destiny, he had laboured, and thought, and striven,and calculated, and sinned, and offended God and man, and won a darkand fearful renown, tainted a mother's fame, violated trust andfriendship, usurped the patrimony of the orphan, spurned every tie ofnature and affection, trampled upon gratitude, and imbrued his handsin blood. Strange that the brightest and the purest of humanaffections, when mingled in our nature with the darker and the moreviolent passions, instead of mitigating their influence, should promptto deeper crimes, and plunge us into more overwhelming guiltiness--asthe most precious medicines, mingled chemically with some foreignmatter, will, is a moment, become the most dangerous poisons. He wasgone; the object of all his fond imaginings, his daily labours and hisnightly thoughts. The hopes that had been built up upon his life wereall thrown down. The line between the present and the future wassnapped asunder. The pang had been suffered--the terrible pang of therending of a strong manly heart from its closest ties and its dearestexpectations. The effect had been awful, terrible. It had for a timeunseated reason from a throne where she had ruled with sway almostdespotic. But that pang had been conquered. Reason had regained herrule. The tempest of the heart had passed away, and had left the skycalm--but not bright. No! Dull, dull, heavy, leaden, threatening, wasthe aspect of all around. The pure light of day was extinguished,never to dawn for him again; and all the light that was left came fromthe dull torch of ambition.
Richard sat in the room of the royal lodging at Leicester, where wehave before seen him. There was a gentleman by his side, with headslightly bent, reading, from a long slip of paper, some notes of allthe different pieces of intelligence which had been received duringthe day.
"What next?" demanded the king, in a dull and almost inattentive,tone.
"The letter which your grace proposed to write to your royalsister-in-law," replied the gentleman.
Richard started, "Ay," he said, thoughtfully; "ay, it must be done;"and, rubbing his temple gently with the fingers of his right hand, heseemed to give himself up to meditation. After a short space of time,it would appear, he partly forgot, if I may use such a term, thepresence of another; and he murmured words to himself, which he mightnot have done had he been acutely conscious that they were overheard,"Shall the son of Clarence succeed?" he asked himself, in a longgloomy tone; "for him have I done all these things?--To make him Kingof England? That fair inheritance, for which I have toiled andlaboured, and thought, and desired, and watched by night, and acted byday, shall it be his?--No, no! And yet there is a fate that overrulesman's policy, and thwarts his best-devised schemes.--No child for me,if Ann lives; and it all goes to another race.--What then?" And hepaused, and thought once more very deeply.
The busy movements of his mind during that reverie who shallscrutinize? But at length he said: "No, no! She was the love of myyouth, the partner of my early cares and joys.--No! Grief will soon doits work on her. She is of that soft and fragile-hearted nature, whichcrumbles at the first rude touch, like the brittle sandstone. I am ofgranite, which the chisel may mark, but which no saw will touch--hardand perdurable. We must bide the event. The canker is on the frailflower, and it will fall soon enough! In the mean time, 'tis well tobe prepared;" and, turning to the man beside him, he added, "I willwrite that letter with my own hand. Have a post ready by six thisevening. What next?"
"The young Lord Chartley waits your grace's will, in ward," repliedthe secretary; and, seeing that Richard seemed plunged in thoughtagain, he added, "suspected of aiding the escape of Morton, bishop ofEly."
"Ha!" cried Richard, with an angry start; "he shall--" But he pausedsuddenly, laid his hand upon his brow for a moment or two, and thenadded in a calmer tone, "No. He is a foolish boy. This man was histutor. We love those who were the guides and conductors of our youth.But I will make sure of him. Give me those letters--No, not those, thepacket on the left;" and, having received what he demanded, heexamined the despatches carefully, and then said, "What next?"
The secretary looked at the paper in his hand, and then replied:
"Arnold Lord Calverly craves your highness's gracious sanction, tocomplete the marriage already contracted between his niece, the LadyLola St. Leger, and the Lord Fulmer. He craves audience on this score,and is, I believe, even now in the great hall below."
Richard meditated for a moment or two.
"He is a stanch and steady friend," he said at length; "yet, this LordFulmer--I love him not. I doubt him. He is a man of high-tonedfantasies, and grave imaginations--moveable with the wind of passion,and notions of what he believes fine thoughts. I love not your men ofemotions. Give me the man of firm calm deeds, who sets a mighty objectbefore him, and cleaves a way to it through all impediments. Theinheritance is large; his own power great; united, they may bedangerous. But we must temporise and see. 'Tis wise to keepexpectation on the wing. When we have given all, we have no more togive; and, by St. Paul, gratitude is a poor bond, compared withdesire.--But I must see the Lord Calverly. Go, give him admission. Wewill hear the rest afterwards."
The secretary departed; and Richard remained with his brow resting onhis hand, till a door again opened, and a stout elderly gentleman wasadmitted, with an expression of countenance indicating no slightopinion of his own importance, but no very great profundity ofintellect. The king instantly rose, and took him by the hand.
"Welcome, welcome, my noble lord," he said. "You have come to me at amoment of deep grief and pain; but your presence is none the lessacceptable, as, indeed, what can afford greater consolation than thesociety of a true friend?"
The cordiality with which he was received might have surprised anyother person than Arnold Lord Calverly; for Richard was not a man of acordial nature, and displayed little warmth of manner to any but hismere familiar tools, or to those whom he intended to deceive or todestroy. The worthy lord, how, ever, was quite satisfied that hedeserved the utmost kindness and consideration; and taking it forgranted that the monarch really received him joyfully, he proceeded tocomfort him with such common places as men of inferior intellectmistake for the dicta of wisdom.
"Alack, my lord the king," he said, "you have indeed suffered a greatdeprivation. But, you know, this is merely to share the common fate ofall men, from which the king is no more exempt than the peasant. Deathrespects not the young or the old, the high or the low. We are allsubject to his power; and, perhaps, those he takes soonest are thehappiest. I would have your highness consider what a troublous life itis that man leads here below; and how many sorrows the young prince,God rest his soul, may have escaped; and, in your own knowledge oflife, you will find consolation fo
r his having lost it."
"True, very true," replied Richard, with a grave and thoughtful look."That is sound philosophy, my dear lord, as indeed is all that you sayon all occasions. Yet one cannot help regretting, if not the poorboy's release from earthly suffering, at least the extinction of one'sown succession, and especially where a crown is a part of theheritage."
"Nay, now, sire, in this you judge not altogether wisely," replied theold nobleman. "Pardon my boldness in so speaking. But why should a mandesire to transmit his possessions to a child of his own, rather thanto the child of any other man. I speak in the abstract, mark me--Ispeak in the abstract--for, if a man have children of his own, ofcourse he would rather that they succeeded. That's very natural. Butif he have none, why should he desire posterity? His eyes must beclosed before his child can take the succession. He cannot thereforesee the enjoyment of it by his child."
"Very true," said Richard. "Very true."
"Besides," continued Lord Calverly, "we cannot tell that our childrenwill use what we leave them better than the children of other men. Itis but a prejudice, my lord the king, to wish for posterity; and,indeed, I are inclined to think that those men are happiest who havenever had any children."
"If they have minds so full of philosophy as yours, my lord," answeredRichard; "and you can judge well, for you are yourself childless, andyet happy in yourself."
"Perfectly, your highness," replied Lord Calverly. "I would not changewith a patriarch. Indeed, the presence of children and our love forthem often betrays us into dangerous weaknesses, against which weshould guard with care, if Heaven should inflict them on us. I havebeen always watchful--very watchful, your highness, against suchfoibles. Even in the case of my niece, my poor brother's child, whowas left to my charge and guidance a mere infant; as soon as I found Iwas becoming too fond of her, and that, when she was well I was toocareful of her, when she was ill I thought too much about her, I senther away at once to my sister, the abbess of St. Clare. Women's mindsbeing, weak, cannot be injured by such softnesses; but they suit illwith a philosopher, a soldier, or a statesman. But it is upon thissubject that I came to speak with your highness."
"What, regarding the abbess of St. Clare?" said Richard, with a start.
"Of her presently," replied Lord Calverly; "but first of my niece. Iwish to crave your highness's permission to complete the marriage ofthis little Iola with my friend, and the son of my friend, Arthur LordFulmer."
"You shall have it right willingly," replied Richard, in thefrankest tone possible. "It shall be drawn out in due form, andreceive our own sign manual. Can I refuse anything to so tried afriend?--Nevertheless, my most dear lord, I will beseech you not toproceed hastily," he continued with a significant nod of the head."Delay the marriage a little, at my request. We would be present at itourselves, I and the queen; and, moreover, I have intentions--I haveintentions----"
He paused, looking in Lord Calverly's face, with a bland smile, andthen added: "Who knows what name you may be called upon to write, mylord? It may not be Calverly then. Coronets will change their formssometimes; and we do not bind our brows always with the same cap.Delay a little, delay a little! At the present moment sad thoughtspossess me, and I have not your philosophy to combat them. There aremany important matters to do. The succession to the crown must besettled; and we shall need all your wise counsels, in graver thingsthan marriages and merrymakings. Delay a little, delay a little, myright good friend."
"Your highness is too gracious," replied Lord Calverly, with a shiningand radiant look. "Your commands are law but there is one othersubject I must bring before you, a matter touching your royal throneand dignity."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Richard. "What may that be?"
"All men know, my royal lord," said the old nobleman, in an oratoricaltone, "that your highness's devout reverence for the church is not tobe questioned, that religion, as one may say, is not in you, as inother men, a matter acquired by mere learning and meditation, but apart and principle of your own royal nature. Now my sister, the abbessof St. Clare of Atherston, whose conduct in her high charge hasdeserved and received the praises of all men, and especially of ourholy father, has commissioned me to state to your highness, the fact,that the abbey--an abbey of nuns be it remembered, filled with youngand delicate women, vowed to seclusion and prayer--was surrounded onthe night of Wednesday last by a body of rude soldiery, under thecommand of one Sir John Godscroft, who, upon pretence of seeking for adeserter, insisted upon admission, notwithstanding her warning thatthe place was sanctuary. The whole building was searched; and not onlythat, but the priest's house and many of the cottages on the green,belonging to the servitors of the abbey, were burned to the ground."
Richard's brow grew as black as night; and, setting his teeth hardtogether, he rose and walked up and down the room, muttering tohimself--
"This must be repressed. This must be repressed."
"Let your highness conceive," persisted Lord Calverly, following him astep or two behind, "only conceive what a condition these poor nunswere in, roused out of bed by these rude men, in the middle of thenight."
A grim smile came upon the king's handsome face; and he replied--
"Grey gowns are soon put on, my lord. Nevertheless this shall belooked into severely--Ha! Let me see--The abbey of St. Clare;" and,taking some papers from the table, he ran his eye hastily over them,and then exclaimed, with a frowning brow, "It is so! 'Twas not adeserter whom they sought, my lord, but a traitor; no pitiful trooperfled from his colours, but Morton, bishop of Ely, the instigator ofBuckingham, the counsellor of Dorset, the friend and confidant ofRichmond."
"But, my lord the king, the abbey is sanctuary," replied LordCalverly; "and--"
"Were it God's altar, with his hand upon the horn, I would tear thatman from it," thundered Richard, his whole countenance working withpassion.
The moment after he cast himself into his chair, and covered his eyeswith his hands, while the pompous old nobleman stood as onethunderstruck before him. After a dead silence of nearly a minute, theking looked up again, and the cloud had passed away from his brow.
"I have been moved, my lord," he said. "I have been moved. This man,this Morton, is my deadliest enemy, a reviler, a calumniator, thestirrer of every trouble in the realm; and he has escaped me.Doubtless it was not your good sister's fault; and even if it were,these men have exceeded their commission. I will have no such acts ofviolence within this kingdom. Rich and poor, strong and weak, shallknow that the sword of justice is not trusted to my hands in vain. Norwill I suffer my name and my service to be used as pretexts for actsso criminal. It shall be inquired into and justice done."
He paused, casting down his eyes; and Lord Calverly, frightened out ofhis wits at the storm he had raised, was retreating towards the door,when Richard called him again, saying--
"Stay, stay. I may have a charge to give you, my good lord. A verynoble gentleman brought up in the court--I may say under my owneye--has somewhat failed in his duty. To what extent I know not yet. Iwould fain not deal with him harshly; for he is young and rash, andlately come from foreign lands, so that he may not know the fullextent of his fault. I will examine him however in your presence. If Ifind he has acted with malignant purpose, he shall go to York fortrial. If it be but a rash prank of youth he has committed, althoughit galled me somewhat closely, I will place him in your lordship'sward, assigning you one third of his revenues while he remains there."
As he spoke he rose, and called in one of the attendants saying,briefly--
"Summon Lord Chartley hither."
"I trust he may clear himself in your highness's opinion," said LordCalverly, while the attendant proceeded to obey the king's commands."I have heard him highly spoken of as one more than ordinarilylearned, and a complete master of exercises. Good Lord, I have oftenpatted his head as a boy; and such a curly head as it was too, allwavy and silky, like a Spanish dog's. I little thought it would befilled with philosophy."
"Perhaps some slipped in from the
tips of your fingers," said Richard,with a slightly sarcastic smile; and in a moment or two after the doorof the cabinet opened.
With a free light step, though a somewhat grave countenance for him,Chartley entered the king's presence, and advanced to the side of thetable, opposite to that at which Richard was placed. The king gazed athim, not sternly, but with that fixed, attentive, unwinking eye, whichis very difficult for conscious guilt to bear.
Nevertheless Chartley sustained it firmly; and, after maintainingsilence for a full minute, with his lips compressed, Richard said--
"I have sent for you, my lord, because there are heavy charges againstyou."
"Will your highness state them?" said the young nobleman. "I willanswer them at once boldly and truly."
"I will," answered Richard. "The first is--and all the rest aresecondary to that--that you have aided and comforted, contrary to ourproclamation, a known and avowed traitor, Morton, bishop of Ely; thatyou took him in your train disguised as a friar, and carried him withyou from Tamworth to the abbey of St. Clare of Atherston, for thepurpose of facilitating his escape, well knowing him to be a traitor.How say you? Is this charge true?"
"In part, my lord the king," replied Chartley; "but in part also it isfalse."
"In what part," demanded Richard.
"In that part which alleges I knew him to be a traitor," repliedChartley, "and in that which implies that I had seen said did knowyour royal proclamation. I never saw it, nor knew the terms thereof,till yesterday; nor did I know or believe that the bishop was atraitor. Yet let me not say one word that can deceive. I was wellaware that he had incurred your highness' displeasure; but on whatgrounds I was not informed."
"And, knowing it, you aided his escape?" said Richard sternly.
"I did, my lord," replied Chartley; "but, if you will hear me speak afew words, I may say something in my own excuse. I never gave youcause before, wittingly or willingly, to doubt my loyalty. I havetrafficked with none of your personal enemies, nor with those of yourroyal estate. I have taken no part in plots or conspiracies; but thiswas a very different case. I found the friend, the guide, theinstructor of my youth, flying from danger; and my first thought wasto succour him. I know, my lord the king, that I have put my head inperil by so doing; but what man would consider such peril to save afather? and this man I looked upon as a second father. I will ask you,sire, if you would not have done a hundred times as much, to rescuethe noble duke of York?--I loved Morton as much."
He touched upon a tender point--perhaps the only really tender pointin Richard's heart. There are spots in the waste of memory evergreen--according to the beautiful figure of the poet--oases in thedesert of life. The burning sun of ambition cannot parch them, thenipping frost of eager avarice cannot wither them. The palm tree ofearly affection shades them for ever; the refreshing fountains offirst love keep them ever verdant. They are few with most men; for allbright and beautiful things are few; but rarely as there a heart sorugged in its nature, so scorched by earthly passion, or so faded fromdull indulgence, as not to have one (if not more) of those spots ofbrightness, which, when the eye of remembrance lights upon it,refreshes the spirit with a vision of the sweet calm joys of youth.The memory of his great father, and of the love which he had bornehim, was the purest, perhaps, the only pure thing for Richard, in allthe treasury of the past; and he felt the allusion with sensations,such as he had not experienced for many a long year. They were tender,deep, almost too deep; and, turning away his head, he stretched outhis hand with a gesture, which seemed to command the speaker to stop.
"Pardon me, your highness," said Chartley, seeing the emotions he hadaroused, and then was silent.
Richard remained musing for several minutes. His mind was busy withthe past; but he had the peculiar faculty of all great and resolutespirits, that of casting from him rapidly all impressions but those ofthe present. He looked up again; and it was evident that the emotionwas at an end. Still it would seem that it had produced some effect inits passage, for his next words were in a milder tone.
"I am willing, my lord," he said, "to believe that you have actedindiscreetly, but without evil intentions. I will make allowance foryouth, and for affection; but still, this must not go altogetherunpunished. Are you willing to abide by my decision?"
"Needs must, my lord the king," replied Chartley, almost gaily. "I amin your hand, and it is a strong one."
"Nay!" answered the king. "You have a choice, if you like it better. Ican send you for trial by your peers."
"Good faith, no!" cried Chartley. "That were worse a thousand-fold. Ina word, sire, I know my danger. Ignorance, youth, friendship, were nodefence before the stubborn rigour of the law. You have the power tomitigate it, and, I believe, the heart. I leave my cause with you."
"Well then," said Richard, "by St. Paul, you shall not have cause torepent. As you have put yourself in the king's will, we will put youin ward with this noble lord, till our further pleasure; assigning himone third of your revenues, for the guard and maintenance of yourperson, and making him responsible to us for your conduct. He will notdeal harshly with you, methinks. Does this satisfy you?"
"Since better may not be, my lord," replied Chartley. "I would asgladly be in the hand of this noble lord, who, if my memory fail menot, is the Lord Calverly, as any one. Give a bird the choice, whetheryon shall put it in a gilded cage or wring its neck, and doubtless itwill prefer the wires; and yet it can scarcely be said to besatisfied, when it would fain use its wings in freedom, though for noevil purpose."
"I seek not that his imprisonment be very strict, my lord," saidRichard, turning to Lord Calverly. "You will take such securities asyou judge needful, but do nought with rigour; for, even by the lightway in which he fronts his danger, one may judge that he did what hehas done in careless ignorance rather than in malice. Now take himwith you, and bestow him as you think fit."
"Ay, young heads are too hot for cool judgment," said Lord Calverly,as they walked towards the door. "It is a marvel to me how boys evergrow men, and how men ever reach maturity; for, not contented with theperils of life, they are always making new dangers for themselves."
"Stay," cried Richard. "Stay! There is yet one question I would askbefore you go, Lord Chartley. Was the abbess of St. Glare privy toyour bringing this turbulent bishop within her walls? I hear you sentforward a messenger."
The question was a perilous one; but Chartley fixed upon the latterwords of the king for his reply, and thus avoided the danger. "Mymessenger bore a letter, your highness," he answered, "which letterthe abbess doubtless still has and can show you. You will there see,that I only told her I was coming to crave her hospitality with somefriends. The bishop I presented to her as a friar travelling with mytrain. Nor was there one amongst the friends who were with me, noramongst my servants, who was made aware of our companion's quality.There is a proverb, very old, that fine feathers make fine birds; andI do not believe that any one saw the bishop's robe through thefriar's gown."
Richard smiled, thinking of Sir Charles Weinants, but bowed his headin signal of the conference being ended; and the two noblemen withdrewtogether.