Salisbury caught her up. “Ay, the roast. Will you partake of these roast partridges, madam?”
They were brought round skewered on a long spit, held by a page for the guest to help herself. Whether by her awkwardness or that of the boy, it so chanced that the bird made a sudden leap from the impalement, and deposited itself in the lap of Lady Whitburn’s scarlet kirtle! The fact was proclaimed by her loud rude cry, “A murrain on thee, thou ne’er-do-weel lad,” together with a sounding box on the ear.
“’Tis thine own greed, who dost not—”
“Leonard, be still—know thy manners,” cried both at once the Earl and Sir William, for, unfortunately, the offender was no other than Leonard Copeland, and, contrary to all the laws of pagedom, he was too angry not to argue the point. “’Twas no doing of mine! She knew not how to cut the bird.”
Answering again was a far greater fault than the first, and his father only treated it as his just desert when he was ordered off under the squire in charge to be soundly scourged, all the more sharply for his continuing to mutter, “It was her fault.”
And sore and furrowed as was his back, he continued to exclaim, when his friend Edmund of York came to condole with him as usual in all his scrapes, “’Tis she that should have been scourged for clumsiness! A foul, uncouth Border dame! Well, one blessing at least is that now I shall never be wedded to her daughter—let the wench live or die as she lists!”
That was not by any means the opinion of the Lady of Whitburn, and no sooner was the meal ended than, in the midst of the hall, the debate began, the Lady declaring that in all honour Sir William Copeland was bound to affiance his son instantly to her poor daughter, all the more since the injuries he had inflicted to her face could never be done away with. On the other hand, Sir William Copeland was naturally far less likely to accept such a daughter-in-law, since her chances of being an heiress had ceased, and he contended that he had never absolutely accepted the contract, and that there had been no betrothal of the children.
The Earl of Salisbury could not but think that a strictly honourable man would have felt poor Grisell’s disaster inflicted by his son’s hands all the more reason for holding to the former understanding; but the loud clamours and rude language of Lady Whitburn were enough to set any one in opposition to her, and moreover, the words he said in favour of her side of the question appeared to Copeland merely spoken out of the general enmity of the Nevils to the Beauforts and all their following.
Thus, all the evening Lady Whitburn raged, and appealed to the Earl, whose support she thought cool and unfriendly, while Copeland stood sullen and silent, but determined.
“My lord,” she said, “were you a true friend to York and Raby, you would deal with this scowling fellow as we should on the Border.”
“We are not on the Border, madam,” quietly said Salisbury.
“But you are in your own Castle, and can force him to keep faith. No contract, forsooth! I hate your mincing South Country forms of law.” Then perhaps irritated by a little ironical smile which Salisbury could not suppress. “Is this your castle, or is it not? Then bring him and his lad to my poor wench’s side, and see their troth plighted, or lay him by the heels in the lowest cell in your dungeon. Then will you do good service to the King and the Duke of York, whom you talk of loving in your shilly-shally fashion.”
“Madam,” said the Earl, his grave tones coming in contrast to the shrill notes of the angry woman, “I counsel you, in the south at least, to have some respect to these same forms of law. I bid you a fair good-night. The chamberlain will marshal you.”
CHAPTER III
THE MIRROR
“Of all the maids, the foulest maid From Teviot unto Dee. Ah!” sighing said that lady then, “Can ne’er young Harden’s be.”
“They are gone,” said Margaret of York, standing half dressed at the deep-set window of the chamber where Grisell lay in state in her big bed.
“Who are gone?” asked Grisell, turning as well as she could under the great heraldically-embroidered covering.
“Leonard Copeland and his father. Did’st not hear the horses’ tramp in the court?”
“I thought it was only my lord’s horses going to the water.”
“It was the Copelands going off without breaking their fast or taking a stirrup cup, like discourteous rogues as they be,” said Margaret, in no measured language.
“And are they gone? And wherefore?” asked Grisell.
“Wherefore? but for fear my noble uncle of Salisbury should hold them to their contract. Sir William sat as surly as a bear just about to be baited, while thy mother rated and raved at him like a very sleuth-hound on the chase. And Leonard—what think’st thou he saith? “That he would as soon wed the loathly lady as thee,” the cruel Somerset villain as he is; and yet my brother Edmund is fain to love him. So off they are gone, like recreant curs as they are, lest my uncle should make them hear reason.”
“But Lady Madge, dear Lady Madge, am I so very loathly?” asked poor Grisell.
“Mine aunt of Salisbury bade that none should tell thee,” responded Margaret, in some confusion.
“Ah me! I must know sooner or later! My mother, she shrieked at sight of me!”
“I would not have your mother,” said the outspoken daughter of “proud Cis.” “My Lady Duchess mother is stern enough if we do not bridle our heads, and if we make ourselves too friendly with the meiné, but she never frets nor rates us, and does not heed so long as we do not demean ourselves unlike our royal blood. She is no termagant like yours.”
It was not polite, but Grisell had not seen enough of her mother to be very sensitive on her account. In fact, she was chiefly occupied with what she had heard about her own appearance—a matter which had not occurred to her before in all her suffering. She returned again to entreat Margaret to tell her whether she was so foully ill-favoured that no one could look at her, and the damsel of York, adhering to the letter rather young than the spirit of the cautions which she had received, pursed up her lips and reiterated that she had been commanded not to mention the subject.
“Then,” entreated Grisell, “do—do, dear Madge—only bring me the little hand mirror out of my Lady Countess’s chamber.”
“I know not that I can or may.”
“Only for the space of one Ave,” reiterated Grisell.
“My lady aunt would never—”
“There—hark—there’s the bell for mass. Thou canst run into her chamber when she and the tirewomen are gone down.”
“But I must be there.”
“Thou canst catch them up after. They will only think thee a slug-a-bed. Madge, dear Madge, prithee, I cannot rest without. Weeping will be worse for me.”
She was crying, and caressing Margaret so vehemently that she gained her point. Indeed the other girl was afraid of her sobs being heard, and inquired into, and therefore promised to make the attempt, keeping a watch out of sight till she had seen the Lady of Salisbury in her padded head-gear of gold net, and long purple train, sweep down the stair, followed by her tirewomen and maidens of every degree. Then darting into the chamber, she bore away from a stage where lay the articles of the toilette, a little silver-backed and handled Venetian mirror, with beautiful tracery in silvered glass diminishing the very small oval left for personal reflection and inspection. That, however, was quite enough and too much for poor Grisell when Lady Margaret had thrown it to her on her bed, and rushed down the stair so as to come in the rear of the household just in time.
A glance at the mirror disclosed,