“If Love mate with Folly, he must expect to be thus treated,” replied Jane.
“Nay, then, I will bestow my favors on the wisest woman I can find,” replied Xit.
“There thou wilt fail again,” cried Jane; “for every wise woman will shun thee.”
“A truce to thy rejoinders, sweetheart,” returned Xit. “Thy wit is as keen as my arrows, and as sure to hit the mark.”
“My wit resembles thy godship’s arrows in one particular only,” retorted Jane. “It strikes deepest where it is most carelessly aimed. But, hie away! Thou wilt find Love no match for Folly.”
“So I perceive,” replied Xit, “and shall therefore proceed to Beauty. I must have been blinder than poets feign, to have come near thee at all. In my pursuit of Folly, I have forgot the real business of Love. But thus it is ever with me and my minions!”
With this, he fluttered towards the Queen, and prostrating himself before her said, “Your Majesty will not banish Love from your court?”
“Assuredly not,” replied Mary; “or if we did banish thee, thou wouldst be sure to find some secret entrance.”
“Your Majesty is in the right,” replied the mimic deity. “I should. And disdain not this caution from Cupid. As long as you keep my two companions, Jealousy and Malice, at a distance, Love will appear in his own rosy hues. But the moment you admit them, he will change his colors and become a tormentor.”
“But if thou distributest thy shafts at random, so that lovers dote on more than one object, how am I to exclude Jealousy?” asked the Queen.
“By cultivating self-esteem,” replied Cupid. “The heart I have wounded for your Highness can never feel disloyalty.”
“That is true, thou imp,” observed Courtenay; “and for that speech I forgive thee the mischief thou hast done.”
“And so thou assurest me against infidelity?” said Mary.
“Your Highness may be as inconstant as you please,” replied Cupid, “since the dart I aimed at you has been turned aside by Sir Henry Bedingfeld. But rest easy. He who loves you can love no other.”
“I am well satisfied,” replied Mary with a gratified look. “And since I have thy permission to love whom I please, I shall avail myself largely of it, and give all my heart to my subjects.”
“Not all your heart, my gracious mistress,” said Courtenay in a tender whisper.
At this juncture, Xit, watching his opportunity, drew an arrow from his quiver, and touched the Queen with it near the heart.
“I have hit your Majesty at last, as well as the Earl of Devonshire,” he cried gleefully. “Shall I summon my brother Hymen to your assistance? He is among the crowd below.”
A half-suppressed smile among the royal attendants followed this daring remark.
“That knave’s audacity encourages me to hope, gracious madam,” whispered Courtenay, “that this moment may be the proudest — the happiest of my life.”
“No more of this — at least not now, my lord,” replied Mary, whose notions of decorum were somewhat scandalized at this public declaration. “Dismiss this imp. He draws too many eyes upon us.”
“I have a set of verses to recite to your Majesty,” interposed Xit, whose quick ears caught the remark, and who was in no hurry to leave the royal presence.
“Not now,” rejoined Mary, rising. “Fear nothing, thou merry urchin. We will take care Love meets its desert. We thank you, my lord,” she added, turning to Courtenay, “for the pleasant pastime you have afforded us.”
As the Queen arose, loud and reiterated shouts resounded from the spectators, in which all the mummers joined. Amid these acclamations she returned to the palace. Courtenay again tendered her his hand, and the slight pressure which he hazarded was sensibly returned.
Just as she was about to enter the window, Mary turned round to bow for the last time to the assemblage, when there arose a universal cry: “Long live Queen Mary! — Long live the Earl of Devonshire!”
Mary smiled. Her bosom palpitated with pleasure, and she observed to her lover, “You are the people’s favorite, my lord. I should not deserve to be their Queen if I did not share in their affection.”
“May I then hope?” asked the Earl eagerly.
“You may,” replied Mary softly.
The brilliant vision which these words raised before Courtenay’s eyes was dispersed by a look which he at that moment received from Elizabeth.
The festivities in the court did not terminate with the departure of the Royal train. Xit was replaced in the turret, whence he aimed his darts at the prettiest damsels he could perceive, creating infinite merriment among the crowd. An immense ring was then formed by all the mummers, who danced round the three giants, the minstrels accompanying the measure with appropriate strains. Nothing more grotesque can be imagined than the figures of Gog and Magog, as engaged in the dance, in their uncouth garbs. As to Og, he flourished his clubs, and twirled himself round with great rapidity in the opposite direction to the round of dancers, until at last, becoming giddy, he lost his balance, and fell with a tremendous crash, upsetting Xit for the second time.
Ever destined to accidents, the dwarf, from his diminutive stature, seldom sustained any injury, and upon this occasion, though a good deal terrified, he escaped unhurt Og was speedily uncased, and glad to be set at liberty joined the ring of dancers, and footed it with as much glee as the merriest of them.
As the evening advanced fireworks were discharged, and a daring rope-dancer, called Peter the Dutchman, ascended the cupola of the south-east turret of the White Tower, and got upon the vane, where he lighted a couple of torches. After standing for some time, now upon one foot — now on the other, he kindled a firework placed in a sort of helmet on his head, and descended amid a shower of sparks by a rope, one end of which was fastened in the court where the masquers were assembled. A substantial supper, of which the mummers and their friends partook, concluded the diversions of the evening, and all departed well satisfied with their entertainment.
CHAPTER XV.
BY WHOSE INSTRUMENTALITY QUEEN MARY BECAME CONVINCED OF COURTENAY’S INCONSTANCY; AND HOW SHE AFFIANCED HERSELF TO PHILIP OF SPAIN.
WHILE the festivities above described occurred without the palace, within all was confusion and alarm. The look which Elizabeth had given Courtenay sank into his very soul. All his future greatness appeared valueless in his eyes, and his only desire was to break off the alliance with Mary, and reinstate himself in the affections of her sister. For the Queen, it is almost needless to say, he felt no real love. But he was passionately enamored of Elizabeth, whose charms had completely captivated him.
As soon as she could consistently do so, after her return to the palace, the Princess retired to her own apartments, and though her departure afforded some relief to the Earl, he still continued in a state of great perturbation. Noticing his altered manner, the Queen inquired the cause with great solicitude. Courtenay answered her evasively. And putting her own construction upon it, she said in a tone of encouragement, “It was a strange remark made by the little urchin who enacted Cupid. Was he tutored in his speech?”
“Not by me, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay distractedly.
“Then the knave hath a ready wit,” returned the Queen. “He has put thoughts into my head which I cannot banish thence.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Earl. “I trust his boldness has not offended you.”
“Do I look so?” rejoined Mary, smiling. “If I do, my countenance belies my feelings. No, Courtenay, I have been thinking that no woman can govern a great kingdom like mine unaided. She must have some one to whom she can ever apply for guidance and protection, some one to whom she can open her whole heart, to whom she can look for counsel, consolation, love. In whom could she find all this?”
“In no one but a husband, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay, who felt he could no longer affect to misunderstand her.
“You are right, my lord,” she replied playfully. “Can you not assist our choice?”
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br /> “If I dared” — said Courtenay, who felt he was standing upon the verge of a precipice.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Mary. “A Queen must ever play the wooer. It is part of her prerogative. Our choice is already made — so we need not consult you on the subject.”
“May I not ask whom your Majesty has so far distinguished?” demanded the Earl, trembling.
“You shall learn anon, my lord,” replied the Queen. “We choose to keep you a short time in suspense, for here comes Simon Renard, and we do not intend to admit him to our confidence.”
“That man is ever in my path,” muttered the Earl, returning the Ambassador’s stern glance with one equally menacing. “I am half reconciled to this hateful alliance by the thought of the mortification it will inflict upon him.”
It would almost seem from Renard’s looks, that he could read what was passing in the other’s breast; for his brow grew each instant more lowering.
“I must quit your Majesty for a moment,” observed Courtenay, “to see to the masquers. Besides, my presence might be a restraint to your councillor. He shall not want an opportunity to utter his calumnies behind my back.”
Renard smiled bitterly.
“farewell, my lord,” said the Queen, giving him her hand to kiss. “When you return you shall have your answer.”
“It is the last time his lips shall touch that hand,” muttered Renard, as the Earl departed.
On quitting the royal presence, Courtenay wandered in a state of the utmost disquietude to the terrace. He gazed vacantly at the masquers, and tried to divert his thoughts with their sports; but in vain. He could not free himself from the idea of Elizabeth. He had now reached the utmost height of his ambition. He was all but affianced to the Queen, and he doubted not that a few hours — perhaps moments — would decide his fate. His bosom was torn with conflicting emotions. On one side stood power, with all its temptations — on the other passion, fierce, irrepressible passion. The struggle was almost intolerable.
After debating with himself for some time, he determined to seek one last interview with Elizabeth before he finally committed himself to the Queen, vainly imagining it would calm his agitation. But, like most men under the influence of desperate emotion, he acted from impulse rather than reflection. The resolution was no sooner formed than acted upon. Learning that the Princess was in her chamber, he proceeded thither, and found her alone.
‘ Elizabeth was seated in a small room partially hung with arras, and over the chair she occupied were placed the portraits of her sire, Henry the Eighth, and two of his wives, Anne Boleyn and Catherine of Aragon. Greatly surprised by the Earl’s visit, she immediately arose, and in an authoritative tone commanded him to withdraw.
“How is this?” she cried. “Are you not content with what you have already done, but must add insult to perfidy?”
“Hear me, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, advancing towards her, and throwing himself on his knee. “I am come to implore your forgiveness.”
“You have my compassion my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth; “but you shall not have my forgiveness. You have deeply deceived me.”
“I have deceived myself,” replied Courtenay.
“A paltry prevarication, and unworthy of you,” observed the Princess scornfully. “But I have endured this long enough. Arise, and leave me.”
“I will not leave you, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, “till I have explained the real motives of my conduct, and the real state of my feelings, which, when I have done, I am persuaded you will not judge me as harshly as you do now.”
“I do not desire to hear them,” replied the Princess. “ But since you are determined to speak, be brief.”
“During my captivity in this fortress,” began Courtenay, “when I scarcely hoped for release, and when I was an utter stranger, except from description, to the beauties of your sex, I had certain vague and visionary notions of female loveliness, which I have never since found realized except in yourself.”
Elizabeth uttered an exclamation of impatience.
“Do not interrupt me,” proceeded Courtenay. “All I wish to show is, that long before I had seen you, my heart was predisposed to love you. On my release from imprisonment, it was made evident in many ways that the Queen, your sister, regarded me with favorable eyes. Dazzled by the distinction — as who would not be? — I fancied I returned her passion. But I knew not then what love was — nor was it till I was bound in this thraldom that I became acquainted with its pangs.”
“This you have said before, my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth, struggling against her emotion. “And if you had not, it is too late to say it now.”
“Your pardon, dearest Elizabeth,” rejoined Courtenay, “for such you will ever be to me. I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I know, also, that I shall not the less on that account obtain it. Hear the truth from me, and judge me as you think proper. Since I knew that I had gained an interest in your eyes I never could love your sister. Her throne had no longer any temptation for me — her attachment inspired me with disgust. You were, and still are, the sole possessor of my heart.”
“Still ARE! my lord,” exclaimed Elizabeth indignantly. “And you are about to wed the Queen. Say no more, or my pity for you will be changed into contempt.”
“It is my fate,” replied the Earl. “Oh! if you knew what the struggle has cost me, to sacrifice love at the shrine of ambition, you would indeed pity me.”
“My lord,” said Elizabeth proudly, “if you have no respect for me, at least have some for yourself, and cease these unworthy lamentations.”
“Tell me you no longer love me — tell me you despise — hate me — anything to reconcile myself to my present lot,” cried Courtenay.
“Were I to say I no longer loved you, I should belie my heart,” rejoined Elizabeth; “for, unfortunately for my peace of mind I have formed a passion which I cannot conquer. But were I also to say that your abject conduct does not inspire me with contempt — with scorn for you, I should speak falsely. Hear me, in my turn, my lord. To-morrow I shall solicit permission from the Queen to retire from the court altogether, and I shall not return till my feelings towards yourself are wholly changed.”
“Say not so,” cried Courtenay. “I will forego all the brilliant expectations held out to me by Mary. I cannot endure to part with you.”
“You have gone too far to retreat, my lord,” said Elizabeth. “You are affianced to my sister.”
“Not so,” replied Courtenay, “and I never will be. When I came hither, it was to implore your forgiveness, and to take leave of you forever. But I find that wholly impossible. Let us fly from this fortress and find, either in a foreign land or in some obscure corner of this kingdom, a happiness which a crown could not confer.”
As he pronounced these words with all the ardor of genuine passion, he pressed her hand to his lips. Elizabeth did not withdraw it.
“Save me from this great crime,” he cried, “save me from wedding one whom I have never loved — save me from a union which my soul abhors.”
“Are you sincere?” asked Elizabeth, much moved. “On my soul I am,” replied Courtenay fervently. “Will you fly with me — this night — this hour — now?”
“I will answer that question,” cried a voice which struck them both as if a thunderbolt had fallen at their feet. “I will answer that question,” cried Mary, forcibly throwing aside the arras and gazing at them with eyes that literally seemed to flash fire—” she will not.”
“Had I not heard this with my own ears,” she continued in a terrible tone, addressing her faithless lover, who still remained in a kneeling posture, regarding her with a look of mingled shame and defiance, “had I not heard this with my own ears, and seen it with my own eyes, I could not have believed it! Perfidious villain! you have deceived us both. But you shall feel what it is to incur the resentment of a Queen — and that Queen the daughter of Henry the Eighth. Come in, sir,” she added to some one behind the arras, and Simon Renard immediately steppe
d forth. “As I owe the discovery of the Earl of Devonshire’s perfidy to you, the least I can do is to let you witness his disgrace.”
“I will not attempt to defend myself, gracious madam,” said Courtenay, rising, “Defend yourself!” echoed the Queen bitterly. “Not a word of your conversation to the Princess has escaped my ears. I was there — behind that curtain — almost as soon as you entered her chamber. I was acquainted with your treachery by this gentleman. I disbelieved him. But I soon found he spoke the truth. A masked staircase enabled me to approach you unobserved. I have heard all — all, traitor, all!”
“To play the eavesdropper was worthy of Simon Renard,” returned Courtenay, with a look of deadly hatred at the Ambassador, “but scarcely, I think, befitting the Queen of England.”
“Where the Queen of England has unworthy persons to deal with, she must resort to unworthy means to detect them,” returned Mary. “I am deeply indebted to M. Renard for his service — more deeply than I can express. An hour more, and it had been too late. Had I affianced myself to you, I should have considered the engagement binding. As it is, I can unscrupulously break it. I am greatly beholden to you, sir.”
“I am truly rejoiced to be the instrument of preventing your Majesty from entering into this degrading alliance,” said Renard. “Had it taken place, you would have unceasingly repented it.”
“For you, minion,” continued the Queen, turning to Elizabeth, who had looked silently on, “I have more pity than anger. You have been equally his dupe.”
“I do not desire your Highness’s pity,” rejoined the Princess haughtily. “Your own case is more deserving of compassion than mine.”
“Ah! God’s death! derided!” cried the Queen, stamping her foot with indignation. “Summon the guard, M. Renard; I will place them both in confinement. Why am I not obeyed?” she continued, seeing the Ambassador hesitated.
“Do nothing at this moment, I implore you, gracious madam,” said Renard in a low voice. “Disgrace were better than imprisonment. You punish the Earl sufficiently in casting him off.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 145