Along with these were others, forming more avowedly a part of the retainers of Chiverton: the aged steward, the superintendant of the household, leaned on his staff, with an air of importance, which his ancient and venerable appearance prevented from being ridiculous, save to the unhallowed imaginations of one or two youngsters, who did not always refrain from breaking a joke on the language and demeanour of Master Martin Misseltoe. Advancing before the rest, by virtue of his office, the steward first welcomed the blushing bright-eyed fair one to her new home. He was followed by the gallants already spoken of; and a dingy collection of domestics and buff-coated men at arms, whose lack of present occupation generally left them at leisure to bear a part, either as actors or spectators, in whatsoever went forward in the vicinity of the hall, filled up the back ground, a sort of relief to the gay braveries of their superiors.
“Now by this light,” exclaimed one of the byestanders, the cock of whose beaver, and studied curl of mustachio, lent to his countenance a somewhat Spanish air, “a very fair beauty trust me; a blue eye and a laughing; a most sweet smile in sooth; and her forehead is as tall and ample, simply as any I may have seen, since that I returned from foreign parts.”
“Which having been some twelve years ago,” interrupted one who stood near him, “and the recital thereof grown daily twelve times more tedious, it were to be wished that God would deprive thee of the power of speech, or thine acquaintance of the faculty of hearing.”
“Of a verity,” answered the first speaker, “that were too severe — to those of my acquaintance, Master Vivian especially, who being even now void of understanding, to deprive them of hearing were somewhat more than just.”
“Thou hast spoken well,” retorted the other, “Coragio, man of travel — thy discourse is, indeed, curiously severe, and fancifully quaint — adorned with—”
Here he was interrupted, for the lovely Isabel at the instant stepping from the light vessel to the bank, an emulous eagerness to assist her caused a sudden rush towards the spot on which she stepped; one consequence of which had nigh been the overthrow of the steward. The offended man of office, vainly stretching out his arm to check the impetuous forwardness of the crowd, essayed to rebuke them; but he was stayed in the onset of his speech by the traveller, who passing by him, cut short his intended admonitions.
“Are the snows of winter,” said he, “fit companionship for the roses of summer, or the wrinkled face of age for the blooming tenderness of beauty’s countenance? Or is it seeming, that the eagles should give place to the owl, or the civility of courtesy to the rudeness of rusticity?” Then addressing himself to the lady, around whom all bowed with the devotion due to birth and loveliness—” Incomparable lady, you see around you the humblest of your slaves, all eager to pay the honour due, not only to the daughter of Sir Gamelyn Vancouver, but to the bride of our noble host.”
“Host, quotha,” muttered the discomfited steward, “master were as apt one might think.” A look of contemptuous indignation was the sole reply deigned to this observation by the interrupted speaker, who continued his discourse. “For as the most precious jewel becomes yet more precious, when adorned by the curious skill of the lapidary, so beauty, whose price excelleth jewels, is yet more estimable, when set in the high regard of valour and courtesy.”
“Alas, Sir,” returned the maiden, with a seriousness, evidently adopted as a veil to the comic emotions engendered by the fantastic absurdity of the address with which she had been greeted: “Alas, you speak a language, too rich in the flowers of stately eloquence, for such as I rightly, I fear, to comprehend; far less to answer. I am a simple maiden, educated in retirement, and little conversant with the manners or language of the world. Let me then, courteous Sir, entreat, that waving all holiday and too recondite terms, you would speak, as alone I can reply, in the unadorned mother tongue of my country.”
But the orator was not thus to be stayed from indulging in his vein. “Transparent, indeed,” he recommenced, “is the veil which humility throws over true worthiness. Seek not then, lady, to disclaim, what the meanest eye discerns to be especially your own; that refined breeding, which indisposeth its possessor to the gross conceptions and barren phrase of the herd vulgar. For as—”
“A truce with thy similes, Mountfort,” interrupted a middle aged personage, who seemed to possess some degree of influence over the rest, “the lady hath I warrant me had enow of them. There be here, Madam, I will dare affirm, loyal hearts and good swords ready to await your bidding; nor does my friend Mountfort lack in the befitting qualities of a gentleman and a soldier, though his phrase be of the quaintest, and his periods somewhat long. For myself, and my companions, I may say that the homage which beauty demands, other considerations combine to exact; that in the welcome which your servants tender, our lips are but the ministers and interpreters of our hearts. Nor hath report,” added he, “left us ignorant of the honoured name and worthiness of Sir Gamelyn de Vancouver.”
“Sir,” answered the Knight, who had been listening with sad civility to the prosing harangues of Master Misseltoe, “I hold myself unfortunate in knowing not to whom I return my thanks for your welcome to us. During my brief tarrying here, I shall rejoice in your society, if better occupations prevent you not from so far favouring me.”
“Faynton is my name,” returned the other; “I shall be honoured by your commands, and trust our residence will be longer graced with your presence, than your present speech betokens.”
“In that the Lady Isabel must be our advocate,” said the priest, who having lingered awhile, after crossing the river, to give some necessary directions, now rejoined them: “Sir Gamelyn will not sure be so hasty in his farewell to a loved and affectionate child. Some months at least must see him abiding among us.”
“In truth, ye judge amiss, Master Priest,” exclaimed the Knight; “think ye I have no better quest than to follow my daughter’s apron string, like one of those tame dogs, and other brutes, that women love to fondle, and make as useless and helpless as themselves?”
“Surely, Sir,” said the Knight’s new acquaintance, “that women are helpless, is cause unfit for reproach — ought not man more to rejoice, that his strength may yield defence to woman’s weakness, and his valour be the safeguard of her timidity? And how can that sex be said useless, who, (setting aside what should not be forgotten, their kindly watchfulness and unwearying endurance,) possess a charm, that calls into play every better thought and nobler feeling of man’s nature. Does not the aim grow purer in her sanction — the purpose more fixed by her encouragement — the sword more bright by her smile? Born to be alike loved and honoured by those who are fitted to appreciate her worth, it is but among the savage tribes of rude barbarians that the tribute is denied, to which her virtues entitle her.”
“Heaven grant me patience!” exclaimed the Knight, good humouredly, “how these bachelors do talk. An thou change not thy note before thou die — God giving thee years to learn more wit — pierce me with a cloth-yard’s shaft, and hang me as a butt for Cupid’s archery.”
“Sir Gamelyn doth but jest, Master Fairfield,” said the priest, “the father of such a daughter could not think lightly of her sex.”
“You say true, Master Wayword,” answered the Knight, “and could her father do so, the husband of her mother could not. Isabel is a good girl — her mother’s like in all. But how now, girl — so sad? where are all thy smiles fled unto. Cheer up, wench; enter not this gate with a dim eye or a heavy heart.”
They had by this attained the front entrance of the hall. The steward had hastened before as well as his decayed strength would permit, and now enjoyed the self complacency, with which he led the way through the arched gateway that opened into the court; on either side of which were ranked the retainers of the master of the place. Nor were the retainers and domestics of those times, the same as now fill up the establishments of the noble and wealthy.
They did not then, as now, tread close upon the heels of their employer
s, nor was servility a substitute for service. The lines of demarcation were more plainly drawn out between the classes of a community, and the servant thought not of aping the manners, the dress, or the vices of the roaster. Attached to the spot, in which many of them had probably grown up from youth, and devoted to the family, with which they deemed themselves, in a manner, allied by the long exchange of service and protection, the idea of a change of their abode rarely offered itself to their minds. These ties, which the progress of time continually strengthened, caused will and duty to go hand in hand, and as there was a degree of satisfaction, increased by the prejudices of the time, in being attended by these ancestral servants, kindness on the part of the superior completed the link, which was commenced by the wants and the abilities of the dependant.
Isabel returned with grace the respectful obeisances of the ranks between which she passed, conducted by her father, and closely followed by the two female attendants who had accompanied her in the journey. She paused for a moment as she traversed the court. Was it strange that sadness should for a while display itself in the lineaments of a countenance, whose native expression was one of smiling cheerfulness? In thus entering a mansion, upon which she looked as the residence of her future life, how much was there to arouse dormant, and hitherto unknown emotions. To sever bonds, in which the heart has from infancy been fondly held, and to enter suddenly into others, known only by anticipation; to untwine that intricate cordage of the feelings, which binds us strongly, even to inanimate objects, and still more closely to those with whom we have been united by the pleasing tyranny of cherished affections, is a task from which the bosom recoils. In the hour of bitterness when these things come upon us, will not the spirit faint, and the heart droop, and hope depart, and joy be turned to heaviness. It will — Isabel felt it must be so.
Desirous that her emotions should not be evident to the byestanders, she passed hastily on, and they entered the mansion. After partaking slightly of the refreshments placed before them, the travellers were conducted to the chambers prepared for their residence, the decorations and furnishing of which corresponded with the condition of their intended inmates.
Some time had elapsed, when Sir Gamelyn and his daughter were informed by the good priest, that Chiverton anxiously awaited their pleasure, and entreated permission to wait upon them. “We will ourselves attend our host,” said the old Knight, “and you, worthy Sir, will please for the nonce to be our guide.”
“Sir John,” replied the priest, “is now below, and awaits your answer; your appearance will be the most welcome reply to his inquiries.”
They left the apartment, which, adjoining to the sleeping chamber of Sir Gamelyn and his daughter, opened into the gallery, which directly communicated with the great staircase. They admired, as they descended, the elaborate carvings with which the wainscotting was adorned. Some of the larger pannels were plain, and here were suspended the antique representations of former tenants of the mansion, pourtrayed in a style of art, of which few specimens remain; the productions of imperfect conception and execution, which would now be termed barbarous. But the very circumstances which to modern judgments would render the perpetrators of those venerable portraitures objects of execration, rendered the pictures appropriate to their present station, so well did their stiff severity accord with the gloomy, but not unpleasant shade in which they were enveloped.
Having gained the apartment in which Chiverton now was, the priest flung open the door, and introduced his companions. The room into which they entered was spacious, and more lofty than the style of the age generally admitted of. The tapestry with which its walls were clothed, the beautiful manufacture of the looms of Flanders, was adorned with loopings and fringes of gold, which the lapse of years had but slightly tarnished. Around the apartment were placed stools, covered with dark crimson velvet, and a table of polished cypress wood occupied the centre of the floor.
On the entry of his guests, Chiverton was standing at the upper end of the room, attended only by Scymel, the Moor, and Louis Faynton, the person who had conversed with Sir Gamelyn on his arrival. If he lingered for a moment ere he approached to welcome his guests, it might be owing to a degree of personal vanity, which, considering the advantage to which he appeared as he stood, his handsome and commanding figure, prominent among the group, might perhaps be pardonable. The delay, however, if any, was too slight to be perceptible, and Chiverton laying aside the jewelled cap with which he was covered, advanced towards the entrance of the apartment.
“Were eloquence,” said he, “ever the attendant of sincerity, the welcome I rejoice to offer to Sir Gamelyn de Vancouver and his lovely daughter, would be conveyed in expressions worthy of such guests. But unable, as a solitary and retired individual must be, to command those courtly phrases, with which the ear of beauty is wont to be greeted, I can but seek in your favourable allowances, an excuse for my own defects, and strive that the zeal of service may compensate for the homeliness of speech.”
“We doubt not we are welcome, Sir John,” returned Sir Gamelyn, “whereby the less need of words to entertain your friends. But if it please you, we will pass on, and you shall make us known to the gentlemen your friends yonder.”
“Most willingly,” replied Chiverton. “I know not whether these two gentlemen be of your acquaintance — Master Louis Faynton is.”
“Ah!” interrupted Vancouver, “he and I have already become known. But this other worthy gentleman I know not, to my recollection.”
“You have heard though, Sir Gamelyn, of the learned leech; — Master Scymel you cannot fail to know by report.”
“By the mass no, surely,” exclaimed the old Knight, “I know his name well; Sir, I desire your better acquaintance. And now — but—” he stopped short as he turned towards the Moor, and apparently for the first time noticed his aspect. Mahmood changed not his downcast glance, but Sir Gamelyn seemed confused and discomposed at the sight of his host’s unseemly attendant. Respect for Chiverton prevented his observing upon his follower, but the singularly compounded looks of fear and disgust, which he threw from time to time towards the Moor’s station, sufficiently made known to his entertainer, the feelings of the old Knight; nor did Isabel seem wholly free from the contagion of similar emotions. Chiverton perceived that some explanation, though unasked, was tacitly sought, and placing his arm within the old man’s, at the same time taking with an air of deep respect, the hand of the daughter, he drew them both towards the other extremity of the apartment.
“My honoured, my beloved guests,” said he, looking as he spoke with a submissive glance towards Isabel, “marvel that among my followers there should be one, whose complexion and features seem to have marked him for an object unpleasing as a near attendant. They will wonder, perhaps, more when told, that besides the accidental circumstance of his country, Mahmood Bali (for so is my follower called) suffers under a heavier calamity, in the deprivation of the faculty of speech. It may seem strange, that I should choose to retain this man in immediate attendance on my person. But, when I say, that I have experienced his fidelity and utility in many services of moment, and that I have owed to him the preservation of my existence, I may indulge a hope that my kind guests will behold Mahmood with less disfavour, albeit he suffers those disadvantages which it may be are a claim to pity, rather than harsher feeling.”
“You are right, Sir John,” returned the old Knight, “we will forge this colour; but, swords and bucklers! when I first saw him, I did feel a sort of strange humour upon me. But I have other matter of inquiry — the Lady Ellice; will she not honour us? my daughter looked for a kind reception from one of whom she had heard much, and wishes to know more.”
The old Knight’s words had given rise to a sudden and suspicious glance from his host, but the continuation of his speech dispelled the fears which the first mention of Ellice had occasioned in Chiverton’s breast.
“I lament, Sir Gamelyn,” he answered, “ that my sister, whom you favour with your kind recollec
tions, labours at this present time under a malady which confines her to her chamber, the consequence of an untoward accident, which may be related to you at more idle leisure. Master Scymel here” — they had now regained the upper extremity of the room, “can testify how involuntarily she is withheld from paying her duty, where her affections will, I trust, he speedily claimed by a close and endearing affinity.”
“’Tis an unlucky event,” returned Vancouver, “we are like to be all sufferers by it; we will hope not long — but meantime Isabel can attend her, and—”
“I thank your goodness,” interrupted Chiverton; “but she is so accustomed to her own attendants, that I will not avail me of the offer you have kindly made, and which my lovely mistress, I see, confirms by the silent speech of eyes, which—”
“Oh, Sir,” exclaimed the lady, “pass over my eyes, I beseech you; remember the creature with the brightest, bears inwardly the most venom. But surely I might more tenderly relieve the wants and ease the sufferings of the Lady Ellice, than her domestics. Be they ever so skilful, so grateful to a mistress, who cannot but claim their gratitude, the ministerings of a sister’s hand must be more prompt, than those of a dependant.”
“You will permit me, lady,” said Scymel, “though respecting the feelings which call forth your proposal, to interpose against the exercise of such an intention. The attendants of the Lady Ellice, habituated to my directions, understand and obey them with more exactitude than others less accustomed could be able. You will pardon this interference, the course I recommend will be the best for all.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 9