LADY KATRINE'S SONG.

Thus sang Lady Katrine; and it may well be supposed that the music, the words, and the execution, all met with their full share of praise, although Bridget declared that she liked better the song about the knight and the damsel.

"Now, your promise, your promise, sir knight!" cried the lady, putting the instrument in Sir Osborne's hands; "keep your promise as a true and loyal knight."

"That I will do, to my best power," said Sir Osborne, "though my voice will be but rough after the sweet sounds we have just heard: however, to please Mistress Bridget here, my song shall be of a knight and a damsel, though it be somewhat a long one."

THE KNIGHT'S SONG.

"Alack! alack!" cried Lady Katrine, as Sir Osborne concluded, "you are not a knight, but a nightingale. Well, never did I hear a man in armour chirrup so before! Nay, what a court must be that court of Burgundy! Why, an aviary would be nothing to it! But if the master sings so well," she continued, as Longpole entered, bearing in Sir Osborne's casque and shield, "the man must sing too. Bid him sing, fair knight, bid him sing; he will not refuse to pleasure a lady."

"Oh, no! I am always ready to pleasure a lady," answered Longpole; who, as he went along, though he had found it impossible to help making a little love to Mistress Geraldine, had, notwithstanding, noted with all his own shrewd wit the little coquettish ways of her mistress. "But give me no instrument, my lady, but my own whistle; for mine must not be pryck-song, but plain song."

THE CUSTREL'S SONG.

"The saucy knave!" cried Lady Katrine, laughing. "Out upon him! Bridget, Geraldine, if ye have the spirit of women, I am sure ye will not exchange a word with the fellow the rest of the journey? What! could he not make his hero find one perfect woman? But here comes our host with dinner, for which I thank heaven! for had it been later, my indignation would have cost me my appetite."

As soon as the horses were refreshed, Sir Osborne, with his fair charge, once more set out on the longer stage, which he proposed to take ere they paused for the night. The news which he had received at Sittenbourne leading him to imagine that the tumults at Rochester, having been suffered, by some inexplicable negligence, to remain unrepressed, had become much more serious than he at first supposed, he determined to take a by-way, and, avoiding the town, pass the river by a ferry, which Longpole assured him he would find higher up; but still this was longer, and would make them later on the road; for which reason he hurried their pace as much as possible, till they arrived at the spot where the smaller road turned off, at about two miles' distance from Rochester.

It was a shady lane, with, on each side, high banks and hedges, wherein the tender hand of April was beginning to bring forth the young green shrubs and flowers; and as the knight and lady went along, Nature offered them a thousand objects of descant which they did not fail to use. Their conversation, however, was interrupted after a while by the noise of a distant drum, and a variety of shouts and halloos came floating upon the gale, like the breakings-forth of an excited multitude.

As they advanced, the sounds seemed also to approach.

"My casque and lance," said Sir Osborne, turning to Longpole. "Lady, you had perhaps better let your jennet drop back to a line with your women."

"Nay, I will dare the front," said Lady Katrine; "a woman's presence will often tame a crowd."

"You are with a band of soldiers," said Sir Osborne, hearing the clamour approaching, "and must obey command. What! horse; back, back!" and laying his hand on the lady's bridle, he reined it back to a line with her women. "Longpole, advance!" cried the knight. "Left-hand spear of the third line to the front! Archers behind, keep a wary eye on the banks: shoot not, but bend your bows. I trust there is no danger, lady, but 'tis well to be prepared. Now, on slowly."

And thus opposing what defence they could between Lady Katrine and the multitude, whose cries they now heard coming nearer and nearer, Sir Osborne and the two horsemen he had called to his side, moved forward, keeping a wary eye on the turnings of the road and the high banks by which it was overhung.

They had not proceeded far, however, before they descried the termination of the lane, opening out upon what appeared to be a village-green beyond; the farther side of which was occupied by a motley multitude, whose form and demeanour they had now full opportunity to observe.

In front of all the host was a sort of extempore drummer, who with a bunch of cocks' feathers in his cap, and a broad buff belt supporting his instrument of discord, seemed infinitely proud of his occupation, and kept beating with unceasing assiduity, but with as little regard to time on his part as his instrument had to tune. Behind him, mounted on a horse of inconceivable ruggedness, appeared the general with, a vast cutlass in his hand, which he swayed backwards and forwards in menacing attitudes; while, unheedful of the drum, he bawled forth to his followers many a pious exhortation to persevere in rebellion. On the left of this doughty hero was borne a flag of blue silk, bearing, inscribed in golden letters, The United Shipwrights; and on his right was seen a red banner, on which might be read the various demands of the unsatisfied crowd, such as, "Cheap Bread," "High Wages," "No Taxation," &c.

The multitude itself did indeed offer a formidable appearance, the greater part of the men who composed it being armed with bills and axes; some also having possessed themselves of halberts, and even some of hackbuts and hand-guns. Every here and there appeared an iron jack, and many a 'prentice-boy filled up the crevices with his bended bow; while half a score of loud-mouthed women screamed in the different quarters of the crowd, and, with the shrill trumpet of a scolding tongue, urged on the lords of the creation to deeds of wrath and folly.

The multitude might consist of about five thousand men: and as they marched along, a bustle, and appearance of crowding round one particular spot in their line, led the knight to imagine that they were conducting some prisoner to Rochester, in which direction they seemed to be going, traversing the green at nearly a right angle with the line in which he was himself proceeding. "Hold!" said Sir Osborne, reining in his horse. "Let them pass by. We are not enough to deal with such numbers as there are there. Keep under the bank; we must not risk the lady's safety by showing ourselves. Ah! but what should that movement mean? They have seen us, by heaven! Ride on then; we must not seem to shun them. See! they wheel! On, on! quick! Gain the mouth of the lane!"

Thus saying, Sir Osborne laid his lance in the rest, and spurred on to the spot where the road opened upon the green, followed by Lady Katrine and her women, not a little terrified and agitated by the roaring of the multitude, who, having now made a retrograde motion on their former position, occupied the same ground that they had done at first, and regarded intently the motions of Sir Osborne's party, not knowing what force might be behind.

As soon as the knight had reached the mouth of the road he halted, and seeing that the high bank ran along the side of the green guarding his flank, he still contrived to conceal the smallness of his numbers by occupying the space of the road, and paused a moment to watch the movements of the crowd, and determine its intentions.

Now, being quite near enough to hear great part of an oration which the general whom we have described was bestowing on his forces, Sir Osborne strained his ear to gather his designs, and soon found that his party was mistaken for that of Lord Thomas Howard, who had been sent to quell the mutiny of the Rochester shipwrights.

"First," said the ringleader, "hang up the priest upon that tree, then let him preach to us about submission if he will; and he shall be hanged, too, in his lord's sight, for saying that he, with his hundreds, would beat us with our thousands, and let his lord deliver him if he can. Then some of the men with bills and axes get up on the top of the bank: who says it is not Lord Thomas? I say it is Lord Thomas; I know him by his bright armour."

"And I say you lie, Timothy Bradford!" cried Longpole, at the very pitch of his voice, much to the wonder and astonishment of Sir Osborne and his party. "Please your worship," he continued, lowering his tone, "I know that fellow; he served with me at Tournay, and was afterwards a sailor. He's a mad rogue, but as good a heart as ever lived."

"Oh, then, for God's sake! speak to him," cried Lady Katrine from behind, "and make him let us pass; for surely, sir knight, you are not mad enough, with only six men, to think of encountering six thousand?"

"Not I, in truth, fair lady," answered the knight. "If they will not molest us, I shall not meddle with them."

"Shall I on, then, and speak with him?" cried Longpole. "See! he heard me give him the lie, and he's coming out towards us. He'd do the same if we were a thousand."

"Meet him, meet him, then!" said the knight; "tell him all we wish is to pass peaceably. The right-hand man advance from the rear and fill up!" he continued, as Longpole rode on, taking care still to maintain a good face to the enemy, more especially as their generalissimo had now come within half a bow-shot of where they stood.

As the yeoman now rode forward, the ringleader of the rioters did not at all recognise his old companion in his custrel's armour, and began to brandish his weapon most fiercely; but in a moment afterwards, to the astonishment of the multitude, he was seen to let the point of the sword drop, and, seizing his antagonist's hand, shake it with every demonstration of surprise and friendship. Their conversation was quick and energetic; and a moment after, Longpole rode back to Sir Osborne, while the ringleader raised his hand to his people, exclaiming, "Keep your ranks! Friends! These are friends!"

"Our passage is safe," said Longpole, riding back; "but he would fain speak with your worship. They have taken a priest, it seems, and are going to hang him for preaching submission to them. So I told him if they did they would be hanged themselves; but he would not listen to me, saying he would talk to you about it."

"Fill up my place," said the knight; "I will go and see what can be done. We must not let them injure the good man."

So saying he raised his lance, and rode forward to the spot where the ringleader waited him; plainly discerning, as he approached nearer to the body of the rioters, the poor priest, with a rope round his neck, holding forth his hands towards him, as if praying for assistance.

"My shield-bearer," said he, "tells me that we are to pass each other without enmity; for though we are well prepared to resist attack, we have no commission to meddle with you or yours. Nevertheless, as I understand that ye have a priest in your hands, towards whom ye meditate some harm, let me warn you of the consequences of injuring an old man who cannot have injured you."

"But he has done worse than injured me, sir knight," said the ringleader; "he has preached against our cause, and against redressing our grievances."

"Most probably not against redressing your grievances," said Sir Osborne, "but against the method ye took to redress them yourselves. But listen to me. It is probable that the king, hearing of your wants and wishes, he being known both for just and merciful, may grant you such relief as only a king can grant; but if ye go to stain yourselves with the blood of this priest, which were cowardly, as he is an old man; which were base, as he is a prisoner; and which were sacrilegious, as he is a man of God, ye cut yourselves off from mercy for ever, and range all good men amongst your enemies. Think well of this!"

"By the nose of the tinker of Ashford!" said the man, "your worship is right. But how the devil to get him out of their hands? that's the job; however, I'll make 'em a 'ration. But what I was wanting to ask your worship is, do you know his grace the king?"

"Not in the least," was the laconic reply of the knight.

"Then it won't do," said the man; "only, as merry Dick Heartley said you were thick with the good Duke of Buckingham, I thought you might know the king too, and would give him our petition and remonstrance. However, I'll go and make them fellows a 'ration: they're wonderful soon led by a 'ration." And turning his horse, he rode up to the front of the body of rioters, and made them a speech, wherein nonsense and sense, bombast and vulgarity, were all most intimately mingled. Sir Osborne did not catch the whole, but the sounds which reached his ears were somewhat to the following effect:

"Most noble shipwrights and devout cannon-founders, joined together in the great cause of crying down taxation and raising your wages! To you I speak, as well as to the tinkers, tailors, and 'prentices who have united themselves to you. The noble knight that you see standing there, or rather riding, because he is on horseback: he in the glittering armour, with a long spear in his hand, is the dearly beloved friend of the great and good Duke of Buckingham, who is the friend of the commons and an enemy to taxation."

Here loud cries of "Long live the Duke of Buckingham!" "God bless the duke!" interrupted the speaker; but after a moment he proceeded. "He, the noble knight, is not Lord Thomas Howard; and so far from wishing to attack you, he would wish to do you good. Therefore he setteth forth and showeth--praise be to God for all things, especially that we did not hang the priest!--that if we were to hang the priest, it would be blasphemous, because he is an old man; and rascally, because he is a man of God; and moreover, that whereas, if we do not, the king will grant us our petition. He will infallibly come down, if we do, with an army of fifty thousand men, and hang us all with his own hands, and the Duke of Buckingham will be against us. Now understand! I am not speaking for myself, for I know well enough that, having been elected your captain, and ridden on horseback while ye marched on foot, I am sure to be hanged anyhow; but that is no reason that ye should all be hanged too; and, therefore, I give my vote that Simon the cannon-founder, Tom the shipwright, and long-chinned Billy the tinker, do take the priest by the rope that is round his neck, and deliver him into the hands of the knight and his men, to do with as they shall think fit. And that after this glorious achievement we march straightway back to Rochester. Do you all agree?"

Loud shouts proclaimed the assent of the multitude; and with various formalities the three deputies led forth the unhappy priest, more dead than alive, and delivered him into the hands of Longpole: after which the generalissimo of the rioters drew up his men with some military skill upon the right of the green, leaving the road free to Sir Osborne. The knight then marshalled his little party as best he might, to guard against any sudden change in the minds of the fickle multitude; and having mounted the poor exhausted priest behind one of the horsemen, he drew out from the lane, and passed unmolested across the green into the opposite road, returning nothing but silence to the cheers with which the rioters thought fit to honour them.

Their farther journey to Gravesend passed without any interruption, and indeed without any occurrence worthy of notice. Lady Katrine and Sir Osborne, Geraldine and Longpole, mutually congratulated each other on the favourable termination of an adventure which had commenced under such threatening auspices; and every one of the party poured forth upon his neighbour the usual quantity of wonder and amazement which always follows any event of the kind. The poor priest, who had so nearly fallen a victim to the excited passions of the crowd, was the last that sufficiently recovered from the strong impressions of the moment to babble thereupon.

When, however, his loquacious faculties were once brought into play, he contrived to compensate for his temporary taciturnity, shouting forth his thanks to Sir Osborne Maurice from the rear to the front, declaring that the preservation of his life was entirely owing to his valour and conduct; that it was wonderful the influence which his sole word possessed with the multitude, and that he should never cease to be grateful till the end of his worldly existence.

Sir Osborne assured him that he was very welcome; and remarked, with a smile, to Lady Katrine, who was laughing at the priest's superfluity of gratitude, that in all probability it was this sort of exuberance of zeal that had brought him into the perilous circumstances in which they had at first found him.

"But can zeal ever be exuberant?" demanded Lady Katrine, suddenly changing her tone; and then fixing the full light of her beautiful dark eyes upon the knight, she added, "I mean in a friend."

"It can," said Sir Osborne, "when not guided by prudence. But I do not think a fool can be a friend."

"Come, sir knight, come!" said the lady; "let us hear your idea of a friend."

"A friend," replied the knight, smiling at her earnestness, "must be both a wise man and a good man. He must love his friend with sufficient zeal to see his faults and endeavour to counteract them, and with sufficient prudence to perceive his true interests and to strive for them. But he must put aside vanity; for there is many a man who pretends a great friendship for another merely for the vain purpose of advising and guiding him, when, in truth, he is not capable of advising and guiding himself. The man who aspires to such a name must be to his friend what every man would be to himself, if he could see his own faults undazzled by self-love and his own interests unblinded by passion. He must be zealous and kind, steady and persevering, without being curious or interfering, troublesome or obstinate."

"Would I had such a friend!" said Lady Katrine, with a sigh, and for the rest of the way she was grave and pensive.

CHAPTER XIII.

It is strange, in the life of man, always fluctuating as he is between hope and fear, gratification and disappointment, with nothing fixed in his state of existence, and uncertainty surrounding him on every side, that suspense should be to him the most painful of all situations. One would suppose that habit would have rendered it easy for him to bear; and yet, beyond all questions, every condition of doubt, from uncertainty respecting our fate, to mere indecision of judgment, are all, more or less, painful in their degree. Who is it that has not often felt irritated, vexed, and unhappy, when hesitating between two different courses of action, even when the subject of deliberation involved but a trifle?

Lady Katrine Bulmer, as has been already said, was grave and pensive when she reached Gravesend; and then, without honouring the knight with her company even for a few minutes, as he deemed that in simple courtesy she might have done, she retired to her chamber, and, shutting herself up with her two women, the only communication which took place between her and Sir Osborne was respecting the hour of their departure the next morning.

The knight felt hurt and vexed; for though he needed no ghost to tell him that the lovely girl he was conducting to the court was as capricious as she was beautiful, yet her gay whims and graceful little coquetry, had both served to pique and amuse him, and he could almost have been angry at this new caprice, which deprived him of her society for the evening.

The next morning, however, the wind of Lady Katrine's humour seemed again to have changed; and at the hour appointed for her departure she tripped down to her horse all liveliness and gaiety. Sir Osborne proffered to assist her in mounting, but in a moment she sprang into the saddle without aid, and turned round laughing, to see the slow and difficult manœuvres by which her women were fixed in their seats. The whole preparations, however, being completed, the cavalcade set out in the same order in which it had departed from the abbey the day before, and with the same number of persons; the poor priest whom they had delivered from the hands of the rioters being left behind, too ill to proceed with them to London.

"Well, sir knight," said the gay girl as they rode forward, "I must really think of some guerdon to reward all your daring in my behalf. I hope you watched through the livelong night, armed at all points, lest some enemy should attack our castle?"

"Faith, not I!" answered Sir Osborne; "you seemed so perfectly satisfied with the security of our lodging, lady, that I e'en followed your good example and went to bed."

"Now he's affronted!" cried Lady Katrine. "Was there ever such a creature? But tell me, man in armour, was it fitting for me to come and sit with you and your horsemen in the tap-room of an inn, eating, drinking, and singing, like a beggar or a ballad-singer?"

The knight bit his lip, and made no reply.

"Why don't you answer, Sir Osborne?" continued the lady, laughing.

"Merely because I have nothing to say," replied the knight, gravely; "except that at Sittenbourne, where you did me the honour of eating with me, though not with my horsemen, I did not perceive that Lady Katrine Bulmer was, in any respect, either like a beggar or ballad-singer."

"Oh! very well, sir knight; very well!" she said. "If you choose to be offended I cannot help it."

"You mistake me, lady," said Sir Osborne, "I am not offended."

"Well then, sir, I am," replied Lady Katrine, making him a cold stiff inclination of the head. "So we had better say no more upon the subject."

At this moment Longpole, who with the rest of the attendants followed at about fifty paces behind, rode forward, and put a small folded paper into Sir Osborne's hands. "A letter, sir, which you dropped," said he aloud; "I picked it up this moment."

The knight looked at the address, and the small silken braid which united the two seals; and finding that it was directed to Lord Darby at York House, Westminster, was about to return it to Longpole, saying it was none of his, when his eye fell upon Lady Katrine, whose head, indeed, was turned away, but whose neck and ear were burning with so deep a red, that Sir Osborne doubted not she had some deep and blushing interest in the paper he held in his hand. "Thank you, Longpole! thank you," he said, "I would not have lost it for a hundred marks;" and he fastened it securely in the foldings of his scarf.

Though he could willingly have punished his fair companion for her little capricious petulance, the knight could not bear to keep her in the state of agitation under which, by the painful redness of her cheek and the quivering of her hand on the bridle, he very evidently saw she was suffering. "I think your ladyship was remarking," said he, calmly, "that it was the height of dishonour and baseness to take advantage of anything that happens to fall in our power, or any secret with which we become acquainted accidentally. I not only agree with you so far, but I think even that a jest upon such a subject is hardly honourable. We should strive, if possible, to be as if we did not know it."

Lady Katrine turned her full sunny face towards him, glowing like a fair evening cloud when the last rays of daylight rest upon it: "You are a good, an excellent creature," she said, "and worthy to be a knight. Sir Osborne Maurice," she continued, after a moment's pause, "your good opinion is too estimable to be lightly lost, and to preserve it I must speak to you in a manner that women dare seldom speak. And yet, though on my word, I would trust you as I would a brother, I know not how----I cannot, indeed I cannot. And yet I must, and will, for fear of misconstruction. You saw that letter. You can guess that he to whom it is addressed is not indifferent to the writer. They are affianced to each other by all vows, but those vows are secret ones; for the all-powerful Wolsey will not have it so, and we must needs seem, at least, to obey. Darby has been some time absent from the court, and I was sent to the abbey. What would you have more? I promised to give instant information of my return; and last night I spent in writing that letter, though now I know not in truth how to send it, for my groom is but a pensioned spy upon me."

"Will you trust it to me?" said the knight. The lady paused. "Do you doubt me?" he asked.

"Not in the least," she said; "not in the least. My only doubt is whether I shall send it at all."

"Is there a hesitation?" demanded the knight in some surprise.

"Alas! there is," answered she. "You must know all: I see it. Since I have been at the abbey they have tried to persuade me that Darby yields himself to the wishes of the cardinal; and is about to wed another. I believe it false! I am sure it is false! And yet, and yet----" and she burst into tears. "Oh, Sir Osborne!" she continued, drying her eyes, "I much need such a friend as you described yesterday."

"Let me be that friend, then, so far as I may be," said Sir Osborne. "Allow me to carry the letter to London, whither I go after I have left you at the court at Greenwich. I will ascertain how Lord Darby is situated. If I find him faithful (which doubt not that he is, till you hear more), I will give him the letter; otherwise I will return it truly to you."

"But you must be quick," said Lady Katrine, "in case he should hear that I have returned, and have not written. How will you ascertain?"

"There are many ways," answered the knight; "but principally by a person whom I hope to find in London, and who sees more deeply into the hidden truth than mortal eyes can usually do."

"Can you mean Sir Cesar?" demanded Lady Katrine.

"I do," answered the knight. "Do you know that very extraordinary being?"

"I know him as every one knows him," answered Lady Katrine; "that is, without knowing him. But if he be in London, and will give you the information, all doubt will be at an end; for what he says is sure: though, indeed, I often used to tease the queer little old man, by pretending not to believe his prophecies, till our royal mistress, whom God protect! has rated me for plaguing him. He was much a favourite of hers, and I somewhat a favourite of his; for those odd magical hop-o'-my-thumbs, I believe, love those best who cross them a little. He gave me this large sapphire ring when he went away last year, bidding me send it back to him if I were in trouble: quite fairy-tale like. So now, Sir Osborne, you shall carry it to him, and he will counsel you rightly. Put it in your cap, where he may see it. There now! it looks quite like some lady's favour; but don't go and tilt at every one who denies that Katrine Bulmer is the loveliest creature under the sun."

"Nay, I must leave that to my Lord Darby," answered Sir Osborne.

"Now, that was meant maliciously!" cried Lady Katrine. "But I don't care! Wait a little; and if there be a weak point in all your heart, sir knight, I'll plague you for your sly look."

Lady Katrine Bulmer's spirits were of that elastic quality not easily repressed; and before ten minutes were over, all her gaiety returned in full force, nor did it cease its flow till their arrival in Greenwich.

For his part, Sir Osborne strove to keep pace with her liveliness, and perhaps even forced his wit a little in the race, that he might not be behindhand. Heaven knows what was passing in his mind! whether it really was an accession of gaiety at approaching the court, or whether it was that he wished to show his fair companion that the discovery he had made of her engagements to Lord Darby did not at all mortify him, notwithstanding the little coquetry that she might have exercised upon himself.

They now, however, approached the place of their destination, under the favourable auspice of a fair afternoon. The most pardonable sort of superstition is perhaps that which derives its auguries from the face of nature, leading us to fancy that the bright golden sunshine, the clear blue heaven, the soft summer breeze, and the cheerful song of heaven's choristers, indicate approaching happiness to ourselves; or that the cloud, the storm, and the tempest, come prophetic of evil and desolation. At least both hope and fear, the two great movers in all man's feelings, lend themselves strangely to this sort of divination, combining with the beauty of the prospect, or the brightness of the sky, to exalt our expectations of the future; or lending darker terrors to the frown of nature, and teaching us to dread or to despair.

When Sir Osborne and his party arrived at the brow of Shooter's Hill, the evening was as fair and lovely as if it had been summer: one of those sweet sunsets that sometimes burst in between two wintry days in the end of March or the beginning of April: a sort of heralds to announce the golden season that comes on. The whole country round, as far as they could see, whether looking towards Eltham and Chiselhurst, or northwards towards the river, was one wide sea of waving boughs, just tinged with the first green of the spring; while the oblique rays of the declining sun, falling upon the huge bolls of the old oaks and beeches, caught upon the western side of each, and invested its giant limbs as with a golden armour. Every here and there, too, the beams, forcing their way through the various openings in the forest, cast across the road bright glimpses of that rich yellow light peculiar to wood scenery, and, alternated with the long shadows of the trees, marked the far perspective of the highway descending to the wide heath below. The eye rested not on the heath, though it, too, was glowing with the full effulgence of the sky; but passing on, caught a small part of the palace of Greenwich, rising above the wild oaks which filled the park; and then still farther turning towards the west, paused upon the vast metropolis, with its red and dizzy atmosphere, high above which rose the heavy tower and wooden spire of Old Paul's Church; while to the left, beyond the influence of the smoke, was seen standing almost alone, in solemn majesty, the beautiful pile of the West Minster.

Sir Osborne Maurice impulsively reined in his horse, and seemed as if he could scarcely breathe when the whole magnificent scene rushed at once upon his view. "So this is London!" cried he; "the vast, the wealthy, and the great; the throne of our island monarchs, from whence they sway a wide and powerful land. On! on!" and striking his horse with his spurs, he darted down the road, as if he were afraid that the great city would, before he reached it, fade away like the splendid phantasms seen by the Sicilian shepherds, showing for a moment a host of castles, and towers, and palaces, and then fleeting by, and leaving nought but empty air!

CHAPTER XIV.

Now might I expend five pages of post octavo, with great satisfaction to my readers and myself, in describing minutely the old rambling palace inhabited by Henry VIII. at Greenwich, particularising its several angles and abutments, its small lattice windows, its bays and octagons, together with the various cartouches and mascarons which filled up the spaces and covered the corbels between; but unhappily I am in an egregious hurry, having already expended one whole tome without getting through a fifth part of the portentous bulk of Professor Vonderbrugius. I might, indeed, comfortably extend my tale to four volumes instead of three. But no, gentle reader! out of consideration for thine exemplary patience, I spare thee the infliction, and shall curtail my descriptions, compress my dialogues, circumscribe my digressions, and concentrate my explanations, so as to restrain my history within the bounds I had originally proposed for its extent.

Suffice it, then, to say that Lady Katrine, having recalled to the knight's remembrance that his course lay towards Greenwich, and not to London, as he seemed inclined to direct it, they turned their horses to the right at the bottom of the hill, and soon reached the river-side, where, spreading along a little to the eastward of the spot on which the hospital at present stands, lay a large mass of heavy architecture, which, if judged by modern notions, would be regarded as not very fit for the dwelling of a king.

The dull appearance of the building, however, was relieved by the gaiety of the objects round about; for though the sun was now half below the horizon, yet loitering round the various gates of the palace, or running to and fro on their separate errands, was seen a host of servants and attendants in rich and splendid suits, while multitudes of guards and henchmen, decked out to pamper the costly whims of their luxurious lord, showed forth their finery to the evening air. More than one group of lords, and ladies too, enjoying the fine sunset before the palace, made the parade a sort of living pageant; while the river beyond, as if emulous of the gay scene, fluttered and shone with the streamers and gilding of the various barges with which it was covered.

To every one they met Lady Katrine seemed known, and all, according to their rank, greeted her as she passed, some with light welcome, some with respectful salutations, all stopping the moment after to turn and fix their eyes upon Sir Osborne, with that sort of cold, inquiring glance which owns no affinity with its object but mere curiosity. "Who is he?" demanded one. "What splendid armour!" cried another. "He must be from Rochester," said a third. But no word of gratulation met his ear, no kind, familiar voice bade him welcome; and he rode on with that chill, solitary sensation of friendlessness which we never so strongly feel as in the presence of a crowd, who, possessing some communion of thought and feeling amongst themselves, have no established link of sympathy with us.

At one of the smaller doors in the western wing of the palace, Lady Katrine reined in her horse, and Sir Osborne, springing to the ground, assisted her to dismount, while one of the royal servants, who came from within, held the bridle with all respect. In answer to her question the attendant replied, that "her highness Queen Katherine was at that moment dressing for the banquet which she was about to give to the king and the foreign ambassadors, and that she had commanded not to be interrupted."

"That is unfortunate, Sir Osborne Maurice," said the young lady, resuming somewhat of that courtly coldness which had given way to the original wildness of her nature while she had been absent: "I am sure that her highness, who is bounty itself, would have much wished to thank you for the protection and assistance which you have given to me her poor servant. But----" and remembering the charge which the knight had taken of her letter to Lord Darby, she hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to establish some means of communication between them. "Oh! they will break all those things!" she cried, suddenly stopping and turning to the servant. "Good Master Alderson, do look to them for a moment; that groom is so awkward: give him the horse. Now, knight! quick! quick!" she continued, lowering her voice as the servant left them, "Where do you lodge in London? I must have some way of hearing of your proceeding: where do you lodge? Bless us, man in armour! where are your wits?"

"Oh! I had forgot," replied the knight; "it is called the Rose, in the Laurence Poultney."

"At the Duke of Buckingham's! Good, good!" she replied; and then making him a low curtsy as the servant again approached, she added with a mock gravity that nearly made the knight laugh, in spite of his more sombre feelings, "And now, good sir knight, I take my leave of your worship, thanking you a thousand times for your kindness and protection; and depend upon it, that when her highness the queen shall have a moment to receive you, I will take care to let you know."

Thus saying, with another low curtsy, she retired into the palace; and Sir Osborne, mounting his horse, bade adieu to the precincts of the court, bearing away with him none of those feelings of hope with which he had first approached it. There seemed a sort of coldness in its atmosphere which chilled his expectations; and disappointed, too, of his introduction to the queen, he felt dissatisfied and repelled, and had the fit held, might well have taken ship once more, and returned into Flanders.

After having thus ridden on for some way, giving full rein to melancholy fancies, he found himself in the midst of a small town, with narrow streets, running along by the river, shutting out almost all the daylight that was left; and not knowing if he was going in the right direction, he called Longpole to his side, asking whether he had ever been in London.

"Oh! yes, sir," replied the custrel, "and have staid in it many a month. 'Tis a wonderful place for the three sorts of men: the knaves, the fools, and the wise men; and as far as I can see, the one sort gets on as high as the other. The fool gets promoted at court, the knave gets promoted at the gallows, and the wise man gets promoted to be lord mayor, and has the best of the bargain."

"But tell me, Longpole," said Sir Osborne, "where are we now? for night is falling, and in sooth I know not my way."

"This is the good town of Deptford," said Longpole; "but if your lordship ride on, we shall soon enter into Southwark, where there is an excellent good hostel, called the Tabard, the landlady of which may be well esteemed a princess for her fat, and a woman for her tongue. God's blessing is upon her bones, and has well covered them. If your worship lodge there you shall be treated like a prince."

"It may be better," said Sir Osborne, "for to-night; but you must lead the way, good Longpole, for this is my first sight of the great city."

Longpole readily undertook the pilotage of the knight and his company, and in about half-an-hour lodged them safely in the smart parlour of the Tabard: perhaps the very same where, more than a century before, Chaucer, the father of our craft, sat himself at his ease; for the Tabard was an old house that had maintained its good fame for more than one generation, and the landlady piqued herself much on the antiquity of her dwelling, telling how her great-grandfather had kept that very house, ay, and had worn a gold chain to boot; and how both the inn and the innkeepers had held the same name, till she, being a woman, alack! had brought it as her dower to her poor dear deceased husband, who died twenty years ago come Martinmas.

All this was detailed at length to Sir Osborne while his supper was in preparation, together with various other long orations, till the good dame found that the knight was not willing to furnish her with even the ahs! ohs! and yes-es, which offer a sort of baiting-places for a voluble tongue; but that, on the contrary, he leaned his back against the chimney, not attending to one word she said after the first ten sentences. Upon this discovery, she e'en betook herself to Longpole, declaring that his master was a proper man, a fine man, and a pensive.

Longpole was, we all know, much better inclined to gossiping than his master; and accordingly, as he found that his jolly hostess would fain hear the whole of his lord's history, as a profound secret which she was to divulge to all her neighbours the next morning, he speedily furnished her with a most excellent allegory upon the subject, which found its way (with various additions and improvements, to suit the taste of the reciters) through at least five hundred different channels before the ensuing night.

In the mean while the knight supped well, and found himself happier; slept well, and rose with renewed hope. So he was but of flesh and blood, after all.

As soon as he was up, and before he was dressed, the door of his chamber flew open, and in rushed a thing called a barber, insisting upon his being shaved. Volumes have been written upon barbers, and volumes still remain to be written, but it shall not be I who will write them.

Suffice it, that for the sake of those who know not what I mean, I define a barber. It is a thing that talks and shaves, and shaves and talks, and talks and shaves again; the true immutable that never varies, but comes down from age to age like a magpie, the same busy chattering thing that its fathers were before it.

Sir Osborne acquiesced in the operation, of which, indeed, he stood in some want; and the barber pounced upon his visage in a moment. "The simple moustache, I see: the simple moustache!" he cried; "well, 'tis indeed the most seemly manner, though the pique-devant is gaining ground a leetle, a leetle: not that I mean to say, fair sir, that the beard is not worn any way, so it be well trimmed, and the moustache is of a sweet comely nature: the simple moustache! You have doubtless heard, fair sir, of the royal pageant, which cheered the heart of the queen and her ladies last night. We use, indeed, to cut beards all ways, to suit the nature of the physiognomy; supplying, as it were, remedies for the evil tricks of nature. Now, my good Lord Darby gives in to the pique-devant, for it is a turn that ladies love; and doubtless you have heard his marriage spoken of--to a lady--oh! such a beautiful lady! though I cannot remember her name; but a most excellent lady. Your worship would not wish me to leave the pique-devant; I will undertake to raise and nourish it, by a certain ointment, communicated to me by an alchymist, in ten days. Make but the essay, fair sir; try how it comports with the figure of your face."

"No, no!" cried Sir Osborne, much in the same manner as the young man of Bagdad. "Cease your babbling, and make haste and shave me."

The operation, however, was sooner brought to a termination than in the Arabian Nights; and being free from his chattering companion, the knight took one or two turns in his apartment in deep thought. "So," said he, "this light-of-love, Lord Darby does play the poor girl false; and, as she said, the arrow will rankle in her heart, and rob her of every better hope. But still it is not sure. I will not believe it. If I had the love of such a creature as that, could I betray it?" and the thought of Lady Constance de Grey darted across his mind. "I will not believe it; there must be better assurance than a babbling fool like this. Oh, Longpole!" he continued, as the man entered the room, "I have waited for you. Quick! As you know London, speed to the house of an honest Flemish merchant, William Hans; ask him if he have received the packages from Anvers for me. Give him my true name, but bid him be secret. Bring with you the leathern case containing clothes, and see if he have any letters from Wales. Greet the old man well for me, and tell him I will see him soon. Stay; I forgot to tell you where he lives; it's near the Conduit in Gracious Street, any one near will tell you where. William Hans is his name."

Longpole was soon gone; but, to the mind of Sir Osborne, long before he returned. When, however, he did once more make his appearance, he not only brought the news that all the packages which Sir Osborne expected had arrived, but he also brought the large leathern case containing the apparel in which the knight was wont to appear at the court of the Duchess Regent of Burgundy, and a letter which Sir Osborne soon perceived was from his father, Lord Fitzbernard.

Being privileged to peep over men's shoulders, we shall make no apology for knowing somewhat of the contents of the old earl's epistle. It conveyed in many shapes the gratifying knowledge to the son that the father was proud of the child, together with many exhortations, founded in parental anxiety, still carefully to conceal his name and rank. But the most important part of the letter was a short paragraph, wherein the earl laid his injunctions upon his son not to think of coming to see him till he had made every effort at the court, and their fate was fully decided. "And then, my son," continued Lord Fitzbernard, "come hither unto me, whether the news thou bringest be of good or bad comfort; for, of a certain, thy presence shall be of the best comfort; and if still our enemies prevail, I will pass with thee over sea into another land, and make my nobility in thy honour, and find my fortune in thy high deeds."

Sir Osborne's wishes would have led him into Wales, for after five long years of absence, he felt as it were a thirst to embrace once more the author of his birth; but still he saw that the course which his father pointed out was the one that prudence and wisdom dictated, and therefore at once acquiesced. For a while he paused, meditating over all the feelings that this letter had called up; but well knowing that every moment of a man's life may be well employed, if he will but seek to employ them, he cast his reveries behind him, and dressing himself in a costume more proper to appear at the house of the Duke of Buckingham, he commanded his armour to be carefully looked to, and paying his score at the Tabard, departed to fulfil his noble friend's hospitable desire, by taking up his lodging at the manor-house of the Rose, in Saint Laurence Poultney.

Passing through Southwark, he soon arrived at London Bridge, which, as every one knows, was then but one long street across the water, with rich shops and houses on each side, and little intervals between, through which the passenger's eye might catch the flowing of the Thames, and thence only could he learn that he was passing over a large and navigable river. The shops, it is true, were unglazed and open, and perhaps to a modern eye might look like booths; but in that day the whole of Europe could hardly furnish more wealth than was then displayed on London Bridge. The long and circumstantial history given by Stowe will save the trouble of transcribing the eleven pages which Vonderbrugius bestows upon this subject; for though I cannot be sure that every one has read the old chronicler's "Survey of London," yet certainly every one may read it if they like. Passing, then, over London Bridge, the knight and his followers took their way up Gracious Street (now corruptly Gracechurch Street), and riding through the heart of the city, soon arrived at the gates of the Duke of Buckingham's magnificent mansion of the Rose. As they approached the garden entrance, they observed a man covered with dust, as from a long journey, dismount from his horse at the door, bearing embroidered on his sleeve the cognizance of a swan; from which, with the rest of his appearance, Sir Osborne concluded that he was a courier from the duke. This supposition proved to be correct: the considerate and liberal-minded nobleman having sent him forward to prepare the household to receive his young protegé, and also for the purpose of conveying various other orders and letters, which might tend to the advancement of his views. But it so unfortunately had happened, the man informed the knight, that he had been attacked on the road by four armed men, who had taken from him his bag with the letters, and that therefore the only thing which remained for him to do was to deliver the verbal orders which he had received to his grace's steward, and then to return to his lord and inform him of the circumstances as they had occurred.

The profound respect with which he was treated very soon evinced to Sir Osborne what those verbal orders were.

He found the retinue of a prince ready to obey his commands, and a dwelling that in decoration, if not in size, certainly surpassed that of the king. It was not, however, the object of the young knight to draw upon himself those inquiries which would certainly follow any unnecessary ostentation; nor would he have been willing, even had it coincided with his views, to have made his appearance at the court with so much borrowed splendour. He signified, therefore, to the chamberlain his intention of requiring merely the attendance of the three yeomen, who, with his own custrel, had accompanied him from Kent; and added that, though he might occupy the apartments which had been allotted to him when he was in London, and dine at the separate table which, by the duke's command, was to be prepared for himself, he should most probably spend the greater part of his time at Greenwich.

Having made these arrangements, he determined to lose no time in proceeding to seek for Dr. Butts, the king's physician, at whose house he had good hopes of hearing of his old tutor, Dr. Wilbraham, and of discovering what credit was to be given to the reported marriage of the young Earl of Darby.

Sir Osborne knew that the physician was one of those men who had made and maintained a high reputation at the court by an honest frankness, which, without deviating into rudeness, spared not to speak the truth to king or peasant. He was a great well-wisher to human nature; and feeling that if all men would be as sincere as himself, the crop of human misery would be much less to reap, he often lost patience with the worldlings, and flouted them with their insincerity. His character contained many of those strange oppositions to which humanity is subject; he was ever tender-hearted, yet often rough, and combined in manner much bluntness with some courtesy. He was learned, strong-minded, and keen-sighted, yet often simple as a child, and much led away by the mad visions of the alchymists of the time.

However, as we have said, he was greatly loved and respected at the court; and, from his character and office, was more intimately acquainted with all the little private secrets and lies of the day than any other person perhaps, except Sir Cesar, the astrologer, with whom he was well acquainted, and upon whom he himself looked with no small reverence and respect, shrewdly suspecting that in his magical studies he had discovered the grand secret.

Towards his house, then, Sir Osborne directed his steps, taking with him no one but a footboy of the duke's to show him the way; for as the good physician lived so far off as Westminster, it became necessary to have some guide to point out the shortest and most agreeable roads. Instead of taking the highway, which, following the course of the river, ran in nearly a straight line from London to Westminster,^[7] the boy led Sir Osborne through the beautiful fields which extended over the ground in the neighbourhood of Lincoln's Inn, and which, instead of being filled with smoky houses and dirty multitudes, were then breathing nothing but sweets from the primroses and other wild spring flowers that were rising fresh out of a rich and grateful soil. Thence, cutting across through many a gate, and over many a stile, his young conductor brought him out into the road just at the little milk and curd-house in the midst of the village of Charing, from whence, looking down the road to the left, they could see the palace, and gardens of the bishops of Durham and York, with the magnificent abbey, rising over some clumps of trees beyond.

Passing by York Place, where bustling menials and crowding courtiers announced the ostentatious power of the proud prelate who there reigned, they left the royal mansions also behind them, and entering into some of the narrower and more intricate streets in Westminster, soon reached a house with a small court before it, which, as the boy informed Sir Osborne, was the dwelling of the physician.

Seeing a door open opposite, the knight entered and found himself in a sort of scullery, where a stout servant-girl was busily engaged in scrubbing some pots and crucibles with such assiduity, that she could scarcely leave off even to answer his inquiry of whether her master was at home.

"Yes, sir; yes, he is at home," replied she at length; "but he cannot be spoken with, unless you are very bad, for he is busy in the laboratory."

The knight signified that he had a great desire to speak with him; and the girl, looking at him somewhat more attentively, said that, "if he were from abroad, the doctor would see him she was sure, for he had a great many foreign folks with him always."

The knight replied that, though he was not a foreigner, he certainly had come from abroad very lately; upon which assurance the damsel relinquished her crucible-scrubbing, and went to announce his presence. Returning in a few minutes, she ushered him through a long dark passage into a large low-roofed room, at the farther end of which appeared a furnace, with the chimney carried through the ceiling, and near it various tables covered with all sorts of strange vessels and utensils. Round about, still nearer the door, were strewed old mouldering books and manuscripts, huge masses of several kinds of ore, heaps of coal and charcoal, and piles of many other matters, the nature of which Sir Osborne could not discover by the scanty light that found its way through two small lattice windows near the roof.

The principal curiosity in the room yet remained. Standing before the furnace, holding in one hand a candle sweltering in the heat of the fire, and in the other a pair of chemical tongs embracing a crucible, was seen a stout portly man, of a rosy complexion, with a fur cap on his head, and his body invested in a long coarse black gown, the sleeves of which, tucked up above his elbows, exhibited a full puffed shirt of very fine linen, much too white and clean for the occupation in which he was busied.

"Sir, my wench tells me you are from abroad," said he, advancing a little, and speaking quick. "From Flanders, I see, by your dress. Pray, sir, do you come from the learned Erasmus, or from Meyerden? However, I am glad to see you. You are an adept, I am sure; I see it in your countenance. Behold this crucible," and he poked it so near Sir Osborne's nose as to make him start back and sneeze violently with the fumes. "Sir, that is a new effect," continued the doctor: "I am sure that I have found it. It makes people sneeze. That is the hundred and thirteenth effect I have discovered in it. Every hour, every moment, as it concentrates, I discover new effects; so that doubtless by the time it is perfectly concreted, it will have all powers, even to the great effect, and change all things into gold. But let us put that down;" and taking a paper he wrote, "One hundred and thirteenth effect, makes people sneeze; violently, I think you said? Violently. And now, my dear sir, what news from the great Erasmus?"

"None that I know, my good sir," answered Sir Osborne, "as I never had the advantage of his acquaintance."

An explanation now ensued, which at last enlightened the ideas of the worthy physician, although he had so fully possessed himself with the fancy that the knight was an adept from Flanders, a country at that time famous for alchymical researches, that it was some time before he could entirely disembarrass his brain from the notion.

"Bless my soul!" cried he; "so you are the young gentleman that my excellent good uncle Wilbraham was concerned about; and well he might be, truly, seeing what a lover you are of the profound and noble science. He came here yesterday to inquire for you, and finding that I had heard nothing of you, I thought he would have gone distracted. But tell me, fair sir, have you met with any of the famous green water of Palliardo? Ha! I see you were not to be deceived. I procured some, and truly, on dipping the blade of a knife therein, it appeared gilt. But what was it? A mere solution of copper."

"You mistake, I see, still," replied the knight. "In truth, I know nothing of the science to which you allude. I doubt not that it is one of the most excellent and admirable inquiries in the world; but I am a soldier, my dear sir, and have as yet made but small progress in turning anything into gold."

"'S life! I know not how I came to think so." cried the doctor; "sure, the servant told me so. Ho, Kitty!" and throwing open the door, he called loudly to the woman, "Ho, Kitty! how came you to tell me the gentleman was an adept? Zounds! I've made him sneeze. But who is that I see in the lavery? Oh, uncle Wilbraham! Come in! come in!"

No words can express the joy of the good tutor when he beheld the knight. He embraced him a thousand times; he shook him by the hand; he shed tears of joy, and he made him repeat a thousand times every particular of his escape. "The villain! the wretch!" cried he, whenever the name of Sir Payan was mentioned; "the dissembling hypocrite! We have had news since we left Canterbury that the posse, which I obtained with great difficulty from the magistrates, when they arrived at the manor-house, found every one in bed, but were speedily let in, when Sir Payan sent word down, that though he was much surprised to be so visited, being a magistrate himself, yet the officers might search where they pleased, for that he had had no prisoners during the day but two deer-stealers, whom he had liberated that evening on their penitence. They searched, and found no one, and so sent me a bitter letter this morning for putting them on the business."

"I am glad to hear they found no one," said the knight; "for then my poor companion, Jekin Groby, has escaped. But, let me ask, how is Lady Constance!"

"Alas! not well, my lord, not well!" answered the clergyman. "First, the anxiety about you: in truth, she has never looked well since, not knowing whether you were dead or alive, and having known you in her youth. Then this sudden news, that my lord cardinal will have her marry her noble cousin, Lord Darby, has agitated her."

The knight turned as pale as death, for feelings that had lain unknown in the deepest recesses of his heart swelled suddenly up, and nearly overpowered him. His love for Lady Constance de Grey had run on like a brook in the summer time, which flows sweet, tranquil, and scarcely perceptible, till the first rains that gather in the mountains swell it to a torrent that sweeps away all before it. Of his own feeling he had hitherto known nothing: he had known, he had but felt, that it was sweet to see her, that it was sweet to think of her; but now at once, with the certainty that she was lost to him for ever, came the certainty that he loved her deeply, ardently, irrevocably.

"Umph!" said Dr. Butts, at once comprehending all that the changes of the knight's complexion implied; "umph! it's a bad business."

"Nay, my good nephew, I see not that," answered the clergyman; who, a great deal less clear-sighted than the physician, had neither seen Sir Osborne's paleness, nor for a moment suspected his feelings: "I see not that. 'Tis the very best marriage in the realm for both parties, and the lady is only a little agitated from the anxiety and hurry of the business."

"If that be all," said the doctor, "I'll soon cure her. But tell me, why did you call him 'my lord,' just now?"

Dr. Wilbraham looked at the knight with a glance that seemed to supplicate pardon for his inadvertence; but Sir Osborne soon relieved him. "I am going, Dr. Butts," said he, "to ask your advice and assistance, and therefore my secret must be told you. I ask your advice because you know the court thoroughly, and because having, I am afraid, lost one good means of introducing myself to his grace the king, I would fain discover some other; and I tell you my secret, because I am sure that it is as safe with you as with myself."

"It is," said the physician. "But if you would have me serve you well, and to some purpose, you must tell me all. Give me no half-confidence. Let me know everything and then if I can do you good I will; if not, your counsel shall not be betrayed, my lord, I suppose I must say."

"You had better tell him all your history, my dear Osborne," said Dr. Wilbraham. "He can, and I am sure will, for my sake, serve you well."

"My dear Osborne!" echoed the physician. "Then I have it! You are my Lord Darnley, my good uncle's first pupil. Your history, my lord, you need not tell me: that I know. But tell me your plans, and I will serve you heart and hand, to the best of my power."

The plans of the young knight need not be again detailed here. Suffice it that he laid them all open to the worthy physician, who, however, shook his head. "It's a mad scheme!" said he, in his abrupt manner. "His grace, though right royal, bountiful, and just, is often as capricious as a young madam in the honeymoon. However, if Buckingham, Abergany, Surrey, and such wise and noble men judge well of it, I cannot say against it. A straw, 'tis true, will balance it one way or t'other. However, give me to-day to think, and I will find some way of bringing you to the king, so as to gain his good-will at first. And now I will go to see Lady Constance de Grey."

"We will go along, good doctor!" exclaimed the tutor; "for I must be back to speak with her, and Osborne must render her a visit to thank her for her good wishes and endeavours in his behalf. She will be so charmed to see him free and unhurt that 'twill make her well again."

"Will it?" said the doctor, drily. "Well, you shall give her that medicine after I have ordered her mine. But let me have my turn first. I ask but a quarter of an hour, then come both of you; and in the mean time, my good learned uncle, study that beautiful amphora, and tell me, if you can, why the ancient Greeks placed always on their tombs an empty urn. Was it an emblem of the body, from within which the spirit was departed, like the wine from the void amphora, leaving but the vessel of clay to return to its native earth? Think of it till we meet."

Thus saying, the learned physician left them, to proceed on his visit to Lady Constance de Grey.