CHAPTER XX.
I know not whether the architecture of the middle ages--that peculiararchitecture, I mean, which existed in different varieties in England,from a little before the commencement of the reign of the Conqueror,till the end of the reign of Henry VII.--can be said to have advancedor retrograded from the time of Edward III. to the time of Richard.Every one will judge according to his particular tastes of the meritsof the style; but one thing is certain, that, although the houses ofthe lower orders had remained much the same, the domestic arrangementof the baronial residences had greatly improved. Notwithstanding thatlong period of contention, which succeeded the accession of Henry VI.,notwithstanding constant wars and the frequent summons to the field,men seemed to have looked for comfort in the laying out of theirdwellings; and the feudal castle, although still a castle, and wellfitted for defence, contained in it many of the conveniences of amodern house. Perhaps it was, that the struggle of great parties hadtaken the place of private quarrels between the great baronsthemselves and struggles between mere individual conspirators and thecrown. Thus great towns were attacked more frequently than fortifiedmansions; and, during this period, we meet with very few instances ofa simple baronial fortress being subjected to siege.
However that might be, the chambers in a great nobleman's house, thehalls, the lodging chambers, the ladies' bower, were now all morecommodious, light, and airy, than at that former period of few, small,narrow and deep windows, when light and air were excluded, as well asthe missiles of an enemy. Not only in monastery, convent, and college,but even in private dwellings, the large oriel was seen here andthere, suffering the beams of day to pour freely into the hall, andcasting the lines of its delicate tracery upon the floor; and, raisedsomewhat above the general level of the room, approached by two steps,and furnished with window seats, it afforded a pleasant and sun-shinysitting-place to the elder and younger members of the family.
There was one of these oriel windows in the lesser hall, of Chidlowcastle; and round the raised platform, within the sort of bay which itformed, ran a sort of bench or window seat of carved oak, covered witha loose cushion of crimson velvet. The lattice was open, and soft airand bright light streamed in. The winter had been remarkably long andsevere. The snow had lain upon the ground till the end of March; and,even then, when one bright day had succeeded, and withdrawn the whitecovering of the earth, it was only to be followed by a week or tendays of sharp frost, which reigned in its full rigour during some ofthe events which we have narrated in the previous chapters. Now,however, winter had departed, and spring commenced with that suddenand rapid transition, which is often the case in more northerncountries, and is sometimes seen even in England. The air, as I havesaid, was soft and genial; the blue skies were hardly chequered by afleecy cloud; the birds were singing in the trees; the red buds werebursting with the long-checked sap; and snowdrop and violet seemedrunning races with the primrose and the anemone, to catch the firstsmile of their sweet mother spring. The little twining shrubs werealready green with their young leaves; and the honeysuckle strove hardto cast a verdant mantle over the naked brown limbs of the tall treeswhich it had climbed. The scene from the lattice of the oriel windowwas one of those fair English landscapes on which the eye loves torest; for the castle was situated upon a height, and below spread outa rich and beautiful country, waving in long lines of meadow and woodfor fifteen or sixteen miles, till sloping uplands towered into highhills, which glowed with a peculiarly yellow light, never seenanywhere, that I know of, beyond the limits of this island. Gazingfrom that lattice, over that scene, sat two young and beautiful girls,with whom the reader is already acquainted. Very different, it istrue, was their garb from that in which they were first presented toyou whose eye rests upon this page; for the more simple garments ofthe convent had given place to the splendid costume of the court ofthat time; and the forms, which required no ornament, were half hiddenin lace and embroidery. But there was still the beautiful face ofIola, with the bright beaming expression, which seemed to pour forthhope and joy in every look, but now somewhat shaded with a cloud ofcare; and there, the not less fair, though somewhat more thoughtful,countenance of her cousin Constance, with her deep feeling eyes poringover the far prospect, and seeming to search for something through thethin summer mist that softened all the features of the landscape.
They were both very silent, and evidently busied with their ownthoughts. Some attendants passed across the hall, and others lingered,to arrange this or that article of furniture. Others entered to speakwith them and the two girls, from time to time, turned an inquiringlook at those who came and went, showing that they were in some sortstrangers in the home of their fathers.
At length, the hall was cleared of all but themselves, and Constancesaid in a low voice, "I wish, dear cousin, that my aunt would come. Weshould not then feel so desolate. I think our good lord and unclemight have left us at the abbey till he was at home himself."
"He would not have made the place much more cheerful," answered Iola,with a faint smile; "for wisdom is a very melancholy thing, dearConstance; at least if it be always like his. I fear me, too, even mygood merry aunt would not make this place feel anything but desolateto me, just at present. She might cheer and support me a little, it istrue; but I have got terrible dreams of the future, Constance. I trynot to think of them, but they will come."
She paused and bent down her eyes, in what seemed painful meditation;and Constance replied, in a gentle tone, saying: "Why, how is this,Iola? You used not to look upon the matter so seriously."
"Alack, it gets very bad as it comes near," answered Iola, with anuncheerful laugh. "It is something very like being sold for a slave,Constance. However, the poor slave cannot help himself, nor I either,so do not let us talk any more about it. I suppose I shall soon see mypurchaser. I wonder what he is like. Do you recollect whether he iswhite or black?"
"Good faith, not I," answered Constance; "but he is not quite a negro,I suppose. I have heard people say he was a pretty boy."
"A pretty boy!" cried Iola, raising her eyebrows. "Heaven defend me!What will become of me if I am married to a pretty boy? Somewhat likeSir Edward Hungerford, I suppose, lisping lamentable nonsense aboutessences, and bestowing his best thoughts upon his tailor."
"Nay, nay! Why should you conjure up such fancies?" said Constance."You seem resolved to dislike him without cause."
"Nature, dear cousin," said Iola. "Nature and the pig's prerogative,to dislike any road we are forced to travel. Yet, it is bad policy, Iwill admit; and I will try to shake it off, and to like him to thebest of my ability. The time is coming fast when I must, whether Iwill or not; for I think the oath I am about to take is to love him. Ido think it is very hard that women should not be allowed to choosefor themselves, and yet be forced to take an oath which they do notknow whether they can keep or not. Well, the worst of all the sevensacraments is matrimony, to my mind. Extreme unction is a joke toit--how can I tell that I shall love him? I don't think I can; and yetI must swear I will."
"You are making a rack of your own fancy," said Constance. "Wait tillyou have seen him at least, Iola; for, after all, you may find him thevery man of your own heart."
Iola started, and then shook her head mournfully, saying, "of my ownheart? Oh, no!"
Constance gazed at her in surprise; and for the first time a suspicionof the truth crossed her mind. She said not a word, however, of herdoubts, but resolved to watch narrowly, with that kind and eageraffection which two girls brought up from youth together often feelfor each other, where no rivalry has ever mingled its bitter drop withthe sweet current of kindred love. She changed the subject ofconversation too, pointing to some towers in the distance, and saying,"I wonder whose castle that is."
"Middleham, I dare say," answered Iola, in an absent tone. "It issomewhere out there--but yet it cannot be Middleham either. Middlehamis too far."
"There is something moving upon that road which we see going along theside of the hill," said Constance. "I dare
say it is my uncle and histrain."
"No, no, Leicester lies out there," answered Iola; "you never can findout the country, dear cousin; and I learn it all in a minute, like theleaf of a book. I dare say it is some wild lord, riding to hawk or tohunt. Heaven send it be not my falcon, just towering to strike mebefore my uncle comes. I'll not look at them. They seem coming thisway;" and she turned from the window and went down the steps, seatingherself upon the lower one, and resting her cheek upon her hand.
Constance did watch the approaching party, however, till it becameevident that those whom she saw were coming direct towards the castle.They were now seen and now lost among the trees and hedges; but everytime they reappeared they were nearer.
At length Constance turned her eyes to Iola, and said, "they arecoming hither, whoever they are; and my uncle is certainly not one ofthe party. They are only five or six in all, and seem young men. Hadwe not better go away to our own chamber?"
"No," answered Iola, starting up. "I will stay and face them.Something seems to tell me, that I know who is coming. You shall seehow well I can behave, Constance, wild as you think me, and untutoredin the world's ways as I am."
"They may be mere strangers after all," said Constance; "but here theyare; for I can hear the dull sound of their horses' feet upon thedrawbridge."
Iola sprang up the steps again with a light step, and twined her armin that of her cousin. Both movements were very natural. We alwayslike to stand upon a height when we meet those of whom we have anyfear or any doubt; and Iola felt the need of sympathy which the verytouch of her cousin's arm afforded her. A pause followed, during whichConstance sought to say something and to look unconcerned; but wordsshe found not; and her eyes as well as Iola's remained fixed upon thedoor. At length it opened; and, preceded by one of the officers of thecastle, but unannounced by him, two gentlemen entered with a quickstep. One was instantly recognized by both the fair girls who stood inthe oriel, as Sir Edward Hungerford. The other was a stranger to themboth. He was a dark handsome-looking young man, of some two or threeand twenty years of age, dressed in somewhat of a foreign fashion,which, had they been much acquainted with such matters, they wouldhave perceived at once to be the mode of the Burgundian court; butIola's eye rested not upon his dress. It was his face that shescanned; and Constance felt a sort of shudder pass over her cousin'sframe, as she leaned upon her arm, which pained and grieved her much.She saw nothing disagreeable, nothing to dislike in the countenance orair of the stranger. His step was free and graceful, his carriagedignified and lordly, his look, though perhaps a little haughty, wasopen and frank. In fact he was a man well calculated to please alady's eye; and again Constance said to herself--"There must be someother attachment."
The stranger came on at an equal pace with Sir Edward Hungerford; butit was the latter who first spoke.
"Permit me," he said, "dear ladies, to be lord of the ceremonies, andintroduce to you both my noble friend Arthur, Lord Fulmer."
The other seemed not to hear what he said; but, mounting the stepsinto the oriel at once, he took Iola's hand, saying--
"This must be the Lady Iola."
With a cheek as pale as death, and an eye cold and fixed, but with afirm and unwavering tone, the fair girl answered--
"My name is Iola, my lord. This is my cousin Constance. We grieve thatmy uncle is not here to receive you fittingly."
"I bring you tidings of your uncle, dear lady," replied Fulmer, stilladdressing her alone. "A messenger reached me from him at an earlyhour this morning, telling me that he would be at Chidlow during theevening, with a gay train of guests, and bidding me ride on and haveeverything prepared for their reception. He spoke indeed of sending aservant forward himself. Has no one arrived?"
"No one, my lord," replied Iola, "at least no one that we have heardof. But, having lived long in close seclusion, we are, as it were,strangers in my uncle's house, without occupation or authority. I prayyou use that which my uncle has given you, to order all that may benecessary. As for us, I think we will now retire."
"Nay, not so soon," exclaimed Fulmer, eagerly. "This is but a briefinterview indeed."
Sir Edward Hungerford too, in sweet and persuasive tones, besought thetwo ladies not to leave them, but to stay and give their good advice,as to the delicate preparation of the castle for the expected guests;but Iola remained firm to her purpose; and Constance, when she sawthat it would distress her to remain, joined her voice to hercousin's; and, leaving the two gentlemen in the hall, they retired toIola's chamber.
With her arm through that of Constance, Iola walked slowly but firmlythither; and it was only as she approached the door that anything likeagitation showed itself. Then, however, Constance felt her steps waverand her frame shake; and, when they had entered the room, Iola castherself on her knees by the side of the bed, hid her face upon itscoverings, and wept.