Sibyll, wondering at this novel mark of consideration in the careless king, yet imputing it to the high value set on her father’s labours, thanked Edward with simple earnestness, and withdrew. In the anteroom she encountered Hastings, on his way to the king. He started in surprise, and with a jealous pang: “What! thou, Sibyll! and from the king’s closet! What led thee thither?”
“His grace’s command.” And too noble for the pleasure of exciting the distrust that delights frivolous minds as the proof of power, Sibyll added, “The king has been kindly speaking to me of my father’s health.” The courtier’s brow cleared; he mused a moment, and said, in a whisper, “I beseech thee to meet me an hour hence at the eastern rampart.”
Since the return of Lord Hastings to the palace there had been an estrangement and distance in his manner, ill suiting one who enjoyed the rights of an accepted suitor, and wounding alike to Sibyll’s affection and her pride; but her confidence in his love and truth was entire. Her admiration for him partook of worship, and she steadily sought to reason away any causes for alarm by recalling the state cares which pressed heavily upon him, and whispering to herself that word of “wife,” which, coming in passionate music from those beloved lips, had thrown a mist over the present, a glory over the future! and in the king’s retention of Adam Warner, despite the Duchess of Bedford’s strenuous desire to carry him off with Friar Bungey, and restore him to his tasks of alchemist and multiplier, as well as in her own promotion to the queen’s service, Sibyll could not but recognize the influence of her powerful lover. His tones now were tender, though grave and earnest. Surely, in the meeting he asked, all not comprehended would be explained. And so, with a light heart, she passed on.
Hastings sighed as his eye followed her from the room, and thus said he to himself, “Were I the obscure gentleman I once was, how sweet a lot would that girl’s love choose to me from the urn of fate! But, oh! when we taste of power and greatness, and master the world’s dark wisdom, what doth love shrink to?—an hour’s bliss and a life’s folly.” His delicate lip curled, and breaking from his soliloquy, he entered the king’s closet. Edward was resting his face upon the palms of his hands, and his bright eyes dwelt upon vacant space, till they kindled into animation as they lighted on his favourite.
“Dear Will,” said the king, “knowest thou that men say thou art bewitched?”
“Beau sire, often have men, when a sweet face hath captured thy great heart, said the same of thee!”
“It may be so with truth, for verily love is the arch-devil’s birth.”
The king rose, and strode his chamber with a quick step; at last pausing,—
“Hastings,” he said, “so thou lovest the multiplier’s pretty daughter? She has just left me. Art thou jealous?”
“Happily your Highness sees no beauty in looks that have the gloss of the raven, and eyes that have the hue of the violet.”
“No, I am a constant man, constant to one idea of beauty in a thousand forms,—eyes like the summer’s light-blue sky, and locks like its golden sunbeams! But to set thy mind at rest, Will, know that I have but compassionated the sickly state of the scholar, whom thou prizest so highly; and I have placed thy fair Sibyll’s chamber near her father’s. Young Lovell says thou art bent on wedding the wizard’s daughter.”
“And if I were, beau sire?”
Edward looked grave.
“If thou wert, my poor Will, thou wouldst lose all the fame for shrewd wisdom which justifies thy sudden fortunes. No, no; thou art the flower and prince of my new seignorie,—thou must mate thyself with a name and a barony that shall be worthy thy fame and thy prospects. Love beauty, but marry power, Will. In vain would thy king draw thee up, if a despised wife draw thee down!”
Hastings listened with profound attention to these words. The king did not wait for his answer, but added laughingly,—
“It is thine own fault, crafty gallant, if thou dost not end all her spells.”
“What ends the spells of youth and beauty, beau sire?”
“Possession!” replied the king, in a hollow and muttered voice.
Hastings was about to answer, when the door opened, and the officer in waiting announced the Duke of Clarence. “Ha!” said Edward, “George comes to importune me for leave to depart to the government of Ireland, and I have to make him weet that I think my Lord Worcester a safer viceroy of the two.”
“Your Highness will pardon me; but, though I deemed you too generous in the appointment, it were dangerous now to annul it.”
“More dangerous to confirm it. Elizabeth has caused me to see the folly of a grant made over the malmsey,—a wine, by the way, in which poor George swears he would be content to drown himself. Viceroy of Ireland! My father had that government, and once tasting the sweets of royalty, ceased to be a subject! No, no, Clarence—”
“Can never meditate treason against a brother’s crown. Has he the wit or the energy or the genius for so desperate an ambition?”
“No; but he hath the vanity. And I will wager thee a thousand marks to a silver penny that my jester shall talk giddie Georgie into advancing a claim to be soldan of Egypt or Pope of Rome!”
CHAPTER IV. THE FOSTER-BROTHERS
Sir Marmaduke Nevile was sunning his bravery in the Tower Green, amidst the other idlers of the court, proud of the gold chain and the gold spurs which attested his new rank, and not grieved to have exchanged the solemn walls of Middleham for the gay delights of the voluptuous palace, when to his pleasure and surprise, he perceived his foster-brother enter the gateway; and no sooner had Nicholas entered, than a bevy of the younger courtiers hastened eagerly towards him.
“Gramercy!” quoth Sir Marmaduke, to one of the bystanders, “what hath chanced to make Nick Alwyn a man of such note, that so many wings of satin and pile should flutter round him like sparrows round an owl?—which, by the Holy Rood, his wise face somewhat resembleth.”
“Know you not that Master Alwyn, since he hath commenced trade for himself, hath acquired already the repute of the couthliest goldsmith in London? No dague-hilts, no buckles are to be worn, save those that he fashions; and—an he live, and the House of York prosper—verily, Master Alwyn the goldsmith will ere long be the richest and best man from Mile-end to the Sanctuary.”
“Right glad am I to hear it,” said honest Marmaduke, heartily; and approaching Alwyn, he startled the precise trader by a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“What, man, art thou too proud to remember Marmaduke Nevile? Come to my lodgment yonder, and talk of old days over the king’s canary.”
“I crave your pardon, dear Master Nevile.”
“Master—avaunt! Sir Marmaduke,—knighted by the hand of Lord Warwick,—Sir Marmaduke Nevile, lord of a manor he hath never yet seen, sober Alwyn.”
Then drawing his foster-brother’s arm in his, Marmaduke led him to the chamber in which he lodged.
The young men spent some minutes in congratulating each other on their respective advances in life: the gentleman who had attained competence and station simply by devotion to a powerful patron, the trader who had already won repute and the prospect of wealth by ingenuity, application, and toil; and yet, to do justice, as much virtue went to Marmaduke’s loyalty to Warwick as to Alwyn’s capacities for making a fortune. Mutual compliments over, Alwyn said hesitatingly,—
“And dost thou find Mistress Sibyll more gently disposed to thee than when thou didst complain to me of her cruelty?”
“Marry, good Nicholas, I will be frank with thee. When I left the court to follow Lord Warwick, there were rumours of the gallantries of Lord Hastings to the girl, which grieved me to the heart. I spoke to her thereof bluntly and honourably, and got but high looks and scornful words in return. Good fellow, I thank thee for that squeeze of the hand and that doleful sigh. In my absence at Middleham, I strove hard to forget one who cared so little for me. My dear Alwyn, those Yorkshire lasses are parlously comely, and mighty douce and debonaire. So I stormed cruel Sibyll out of my heart perforce of numbers.”
“And thou lovest her no more?”
“Not I, by this goblet! On coming back, it is true, I felt pleased to clank my gold spurs in her presence, and curious to see if my new fortunes would bring out a smile of approval; and verily, to speak sooth, the donzell was kind and friendly, and spoke to me so cheerly of the pleasure she felt in my advancement, that I adventured again a few words of the old folly. But my lassie drew up like a princess, and I am a cured man.”
“By your troth?”
“By my troth!”
Alwyn’s head sank on his bosom in silent thought. Sir Marmaduke emptied his goblet; and really the young knight looked so fair and so gallant, in his new surcoat of velvet, that it was no marvel if he should find enough food for consolation in a court where men spent six hours a day in making love,—nor in vain.
“And what say they still of the Lord Hastings?” asked Alwyn, breaking silence. “Nothing, I trow and trust, that arraigns the poor lady’s honour, though much that may scoff at her simple faith in a nature so vain and fickle. ‘The tongue’s not steel, yet it cuts,’ as the proverb saith of the slanderer.”
“No! scandal spares her virtue as woman, to run down her cunning as witch! They say that Hastings hath not prevailed, nor sought to prevail,—that he is spell-bound. By Saint Thomas, from a maid of such character Marmaduke Nevile is happily rescued!”
“Sir Marmaduke,” then said Alwyn, in a grave and earnest voice, “it behooves me, as true friend, though humble, and as honest man, to give thee my secret, in return for thine own. I love this girl. Ay, ay! thou thinkest that love is a strange word on a craftsman’s lips, but ‘cold flint hides hot fire.’ I would not have been thy rival, Heaven forefend! hadst thou still cherished a hope, or if thou now wilt forbid my aspiring; but if thou wilt not say me nay, I will try my chance in delivering a pure soul from a crafty wooer.”
Marmaduke stared in great surprise at his foster-brother; and though, no doubt, he spoke truth when he said he was cured of his love for Sibyll, he yet felt a sort of jealousy at Alwyn’s unexpected confession, and his vanity was hurt at the notion that the plain-visaged trader should attempt where the handsome gentleman had failed.—However, his blunt, generous, manly nature after a brief struggle got the better of these sore feelings; and holding out his hand to Alwyn, he said, “My dear foster-brother, try the hazard and cast thy dice, if thou wilt. Heaven prosper thee, if success be for thine own good! But if she be given to witchcraft (plague on thee, man, sneer not at the word), small comfort to bed and hearth can such practices bring!”
“Alas!” said Alwyn, “the witchcraft is on the side of Hastings,—the witchcraft of fame and rank, and a glozing tongue and experienced art. But she shall not fall, if a true arm can save her; and ‘though Hope be a small child; she can carry a great anchor.’”
These words were said so earnestly, that they opened new light into Marmaduke’s mind; and his native generosity standing in lieu of intellect, he comprehended sympathetically the noble motives which actuated the son of commerce.
“My poor Alwyn,” he said, “if thou canst save this young maid,—whom by my troth I loved well, and who tells me yet that she loveth me as a sister loves,—right glad shall I be. But thou stakest thy peace of mind against hers! Fair luck to thee, say I again,—and if thou wilt risk thy chance at once (for suspense is love’s purgatory), seize the moment. I saw Sibyll, just ere we met, pass to the ramparts, alone; at this sharp season the place is deserted; go.”
“I will, this moment!” said Alwyn, rising and turning very pale; but as he gained the door, he halted—“I had forgot, Master Nevile, that I bring the king his signet-ring, new set, of the falcon and fetter-lock.”
“They will keep thee three hours in the anteroom. The Duke of Clarence is now with the king. Trust the ring to me, I shall see his highness ere he dines.”
Even in his love, Alwyn had the Saxon’s considerations of business; he hesitated—“May I not endanger thereby the king’s favour and loss of custom?” said the trader.
“Tush, man! little thou knowest King Edward; he cares naught for the ceremonies: moreover, the Neviles are now all-puissant in favour. I am here in attendance on sweet Lady Anne, whom the king loves as a daughter, though too young for sire to so well-grown a donzell; and a word from her lip, if need be, will set all as smooth as this gorget of lawn!”
Thus assured, Alwyn gave the ring to his friend, and took his way at once to the ramparts. Marmaduke remained behind to finish the canary and marvel how so sober a man should form so ardent a passion. Nor was he much less surprised to remark that his friend, though still speaking with a strong provincial accent, and still sowing his discourse with rustic saws and proverbs, had risen in language and in manner with the rise of his fortunes. “An he go on so, and become lord mayor,” muttered Marmaduke, “verily he will half look like a gentleman!”
To these meditations the young knight was not long left in peace. A messenger from Warwick House sought and found him, with the news that the earl was on his road to London, and wished to see Sir Marmaduke the moment of his arrival, which was hourly expected. The young knight’s hardy brain somewhat flustered by the canary, Alwyn’s secret, and this sudden tidings, he hastened to obey his chief’s summons, and forgot, till he gained the earl’s mansion, the signet ring intrusted to him by Alwyn. “What matters it?” said he then, philosophically,—“the king hath rings eno’ on his fingers not to miss one for an hour or so, and I dare not send any one else with it. Marry, I must plunge my head in cold water, to get rid of the fumes of the wine.”
CHAPTER V. THE LOVER AND THE GALLANT—WOMAN’S CHOICE
Alwyn bent his way to the ramparts, a part of which then resembled the boulevards of a French town, having rows of trees, green sward, a winding walk, and seats placed at frequent intervals for the repose of the loungers. During the summer evenings, the place was a favourite resort of the court idlers; but now, in winter, it was usually deserted, save by the sentries, placed at distant intervals. The trader had not gone far in his quest when he perceived, a few paces before him, the very man he had most cause to dread; and Lord Hastings, hearing the sound of a footfall amongst the crisp, faded leaves that strewed the path, turned abruptly as Alwyn approached his side.
At the sight of his formidable rival, Alwyn had formed one of those resolutions which occur only to men of his decided, plain-spoken, energetic character. His distinguishing shrewdness and penetration had given him considerable insight into the nobler as well as the weaker qualities of Hastings; and his hope in the former influenced the determination to which he came. The reflections of Hastings at that moment were of a nature to augur favourably to the views of the humbler lover; for, during the stirring scenes in which his late absence from Sibyll had been passed, Hastings had somewhat recovered from her influence; and feeling the difficulties of reconciling his honour and his worldly prospects to further prosecution of the love, rashly expressed but not deeply felt, he had determined frankly to cut the Gordian knot he could not solve, and inform Sibyll that marriage between them was impossible. With that view he had appointed this meeting, and his conference with the king but confirmed his intention. It was in this state of mind that he was thus accosted by Alwyn:—
“My lord, may I make bold to ask for a few moments your charitable indulgence to words you may deem presumptuous?”
“Be brief, then, Master Alwyn,—I am waited for.”
“Alas, my lord! I can guess by whom,—by the one whom I seek myself,—by Sibyll Warner.”
“How, Sir Goldsmith!” said Hastings, haughtily, “what knowest thou of my movements, and what care I for thine?”
“Hearken, my Lord Hastings,—hearken!” said Alwyn, repressing his resentment, and in a voice so earnest that it riveted the entire attention of the listener—“hearken, and judge not as noble judges craftsman, but as man should judge man. As the saw saith, ‘We all lie alike in our graves.’ From the first moment I saw this Sibyll Warner I loved her. Yes; smile disdainfully, but listen still. She was obscure and in distress. I loved her not for her fair looks alone; I loved her for her good gifts, for her patient industry, for her filial duty, for her struggles to give bread to her father’s board. I did not say to myself, ‘This girl will make a comely fere, a delicate paramour!’ I said, ‘This good daughter will make a wife whom an honest man may take to his heart and cherish!’” Poor Alwyn stopped, with tears in his voice, struggled with his emotions, and pursued: “My fortunes were more promising than hers; there was no cause why I might not hope. True, I had a rival then; young as myself, better born, comelier; but she loved him not. I foresaw that his love for her—if love it were—would cease. Methought that her mind would understand mine; as mine—verily I say it—yearned for hers! I could not look on the maidens of mine own rank, and who had lived around me, but what—oh, no, my lord, again I say, not the beauty, but the gifts, the mind, the heart of Sibyll, threw them all into the shade. You may think it strange that I—a plain, steadfast, trading, working, careful man—should have all these feelings; but I will tell you wherefore such as I sometimes have them, nurse them, brood on them, more than you lords and gentlemen, with all your graceful arts in pleasing. We know no light loves! no brief distractions to the one arch passion! We sober sons of the stall and the ware are no general gallants,—we love plainly, we love but once, and we love heartily. But who knows not the proverb, ‘What’s a gentleman but his pleasure?’—and what’s pleasure but change? When Sibyll came to the palace, I soon heard her name linked with yours; I saw her cheek blush when you spoke. Well, well, well! after all, as the old wives tell us, ‘Blushing is virtue’s livery.’ I said, ‘She is a chaste and high-hearted girl.’ This will pass, and the time will come when she can compare your love and mine. Now, my lord, the time has come. I know that you seek her. Yea, at this moment, I know that her heart beats for your footstep. Say but one word,—say that you love Sibyll Warner with the thought of wedding her,—say that, on your honour, noble Hastings, as gentleman and peer, and I will kneel at your feet, and beg your pardon for my vain follies, and go back to my ware, and work, and not repine. Say it! You are silent? Then I implore you, still as peer and gentleman, to let the honest love save the maiden from the wooing that will blight her peace and blast her name! And now, Lord Hastings, I wait your gracious answer.”
The sensations experienced by Hastings, as Alwyn thus concluded, were manifold and complicated; but, at the first, admiration and pity were the strongest.
“My poor friend,” said he, kindly, “if you thus love a demoiselle deserving all my reverence, your words and your thoughts bespeak you no unworthy pretender; but take my counsel, good Alwyn. Come not—thou from the Chepe—come not to the court for a wife. Forget this fantasy.”
“My lord, it is impossible! Forget I cannot, regret I may.
“Thou canst not succeed, man,” resumed the nobleman, more coldly, “nor couldst if William Hastings had never lived. The eyes of women accustomed to gaze on the gorgeous externals of the world are blinded to plain worth like thine. It might have been different had the donzell never abided in a palace; but as it is, brave fellow, learn how these wounds of the heart scar over, and the spot becomes hard and callous evermore. What art thou, Master Nicholas Alwyn,” continued Hastings, gloomily, and with a withering smile—“what art thou, to ask for a bliss denied to me—to all of us,—the bliss of carrying poetry into life, youth into manhood, by winning—the FIRST LOVED? But think not, sir lover, that I say this in jealousy or disparagement. Look yonder, by the leafless elm, the white robe of Sibyll Warner. Go and plead thy suit.”
“Do I understand you, my lord?” said Alwyn, somewhat confused and perplexed by the tone and the manner Hastings adopted. “Does report err, and you do not love this maiden?”
“Fair master,” returned Hastings, scornfully, “thou hast no right that I trow of to pry into my thoughts and secrets; I cannot acknowledge my judge in thee, good jeweller and goldsmith,—enough, surely, in all courtesy, that I yield thee the precedence. Tell thy tale, as movingly, if thou wilt, as thou hast told it to me; say of me all that thou fanciest thou hast reason to suspect; and if, Master Alwyn, thou woo and win the lady, fail not to ask me to thy wedding!”
There was in this speech and the bearing of the speaker that superb levity, that inexpressible and conscious superiority, that cold, ironical tranquillity, which awe and humble men more than grave disdain or imperious passion. Alwyn ground his teeth as he listened, and gazed in silent despair and rage upon the calm lord. Neither of these men could strictly be called handsome. Of the two, Alwyn had the advantage of more youthful prime, of a taller stature, of a more powerful, though less supple and graceful, frame. In their very dress, there was little of that marked distinction between classes which then usually prevailed, for the dark cloth tunic and surcoat of Hastings made a costume even simpler than the bright-coloured garb of the trader, with its broad trimmings of fur, and its aiglettes of elaborate lace. Between man and man, then, where was the visible, the mighty, the insurmountable difference in all that can charm the fancy and captivate the eye, which, as he gazed, Alwyn confessed to himself there existed between the two? Alas! how the distinctions least to be analyzed are ever the sternest! What lofty ease in that high-bred air; what histories of triumph seemed to speak in that quiet eye, sleeping in its own imperious lustre; what magic of command in that pale brow; what spells of persuasion in that artful lip! Alwyn muttered to himself, bowed his head involuntarily, and passed on at once from Hastings to Sibyll, who now, at the distance of some yards, had arrested her steps, in surprise to see the conference between the nobleman and the burgher.
But as he approached Sibyll, poor Alwyn felt all the firmness and courage he had exhibited with Hastings melt away. And the trepidation which a fearful but deep affection ever occasions in men of his character, made his movements more than usually constrained and awkward, as he cowered beneath the looks of the maid he so truly loved.
“Seekest thou me, Master Alwyn?” asked Sibyll, gently, seeing that, though he paused by her side, he spoke not.
“I do,” returned Alwyn, abruptly, and again he was silent. At length, lifting his eyes and looking round him, he saw Hastings at the distance, leaning against the rampart, with folded arms; and the contrast of his rival’s cold and arrogant indifference, and his own burning veins and bleeding heart, roused up his manly spirit, and gave to his tongue the eloquence which emotion gains when it once breaks the fetters it forges for itself.
“Look, look, Sibyll!” he said, pointing to Hastings “look! that man you believe loves you. If so—if he loved thee,—would he stand yonder—mark him—aloof, contemptuous, careless—while he knew that I was by your side?”
Sibyll turned upon the goldsmith eyes full of innocent surprise,—eyes that asked, plainly as eyes could speak, “And wherefore not, Master Alwyn?”
Alwyn so interpreted the look, and replied, as if she had spoken: “Because he must know how poor and tame is that feeble fantasy which alone can come from a soul worn bare with pleasure, to that which I feel and now own for thee,—the love of youth, born of the heart’s first vigour; because he ought to fear that that love should prevail with thee; because that love ought to prevail. Sibyll, between us there are not imparity and obstacle. Oh, listen to me,—listen still! Frown not, turn not away.” And, stung and animated by the sight of his rival, fired by the excitement of a contest on which the bliss of his own life and the weal of Sibyll’s might depend, his voice was as the cry of a mortal agony, and affected the girl to the inmost recesses of her soul. “Oh, Alwyn, I frown not!” she said sweetly; “oh, Alwyn, I turn not away! Woe is me to give pain to so kind and brave a heart; but—”
“No, speak not yet. I have studied thee, I have read thee as a scholar would read a book. I know thee proud; I know thee aspiring; I know thou art vain of thy gentle blood, and distasteful of my yeoman’s birth. There, I am not blind to thy faults, but I love thee despite them; and to please those faults I have toiled, schemed, dreamed, risen. I offer to thee the future with the certainty of a man who can command it. Wouldst thou wealth?—be patient (as ambition ever is): in a few years thou shalt have more gold than the wife of Lord Hastings can command; thou shalt lodge more statelily, fare more sumptuously; [This was no vain promise of Master Alwyn. At that time a successful trader made a fortune with signal rapidity, and enjoyed greater luxuries than most of the barons. All the gold in the country flowed into the coffers of the London merchants.] thou shalt walk on cloth-of-gold if thou wilt! Wouldst thou titles?—I will win them. Richard de la Pole, who founded the greatest duchy in the realm, was poorer than I, when he first served in a merchant’s ware. Gold buys all things now. Oh, would to Heaven it could but buy me thee!”
“Master Alwyn, it is not gold that buys love. Be soothed. What can I say to thee to soften the harsh word ‘Nay’?”
“You reject me, then, and at once? I ask not your hand now. I will wait, tarry, hope,—I care not if for years; wait till I can fulfil all I promise thee!”
Sibyll, affected to tears, shook her head mournfully; and there was a long and painful silence. Never was wooing more strangely circumstanced than this,—the one lover pleading while the other was in view; the one, ardent, impassioned, the other, calm and passive; and the silence of the last, alas! having all the success which the words of the other lacked. It might be said that the choice before Sibyll was a type of the choice ever given, but in vain, to the child of genius. Here a secure and peaceful life, an honoured home, a tranquil lot, free from ideal visions, it is true, but free also from the doubt and the terror, the storms of passion; there, the fatal influence of an affection, born of imagination, sinister, equivocal, ominous, but irresistible. And the child of genius fulfilled her destiny!
“Master Alwyn,” said Sibyll, rousing herself to the necessary exertion, “I shall never cease gratefully to recall thy generous friendship, never cease to pray fervently for thy weal below. But forever and forever let this content thee,—I can no more.”
Impressed by the grave and solemn tone of Sibyll, Alwyn hushed the groan that struggled to his lips, and gloomily replied: “I obey you, fair mistress, and I return to my workday life; but ere I go, I pray you misthink me not if I say this much: not alone for the bliss of hoping for a day in which I might call thee mine have I thus importuned, but, not less—I swear not less—from the soul’s desire to save thee from what I fear will but lead to woe and wayment, to peril and pain, to weary days and sleepless nights. ‘Better a little fire that warms than a great that burns.’ Dost thou think that Lord Hastings, the vain, the dissolute—”
“Cease, sir!” said Sibyll, proudly; “me reprove if thou wilt, but lower not my esteem for thee by slander against another!”
“What!” said Alwyn, bitterly; “doth even one word of counsel chafe thee? I tell thee that if thou dreamest that Lord Hastings loves Sibyll Warner as man loves the maiden he would wed, thou deceivest thyself to thine own misery. If thou wouldst prove it, go to him now,—go and say, ‘Wilt thou give me that home of peace and honour, that shelter for my father’s old age under a son’s roof which the trader I despise proffers me in vain?”
“If it were already proffered me—by him?” said Sibyll, in a low voice, and blushing deeply.
Alwyn started. “Then I wronged him; and—and—” he added generously, though with a faint sickness at his heart, “I can yet be happy in thinking thou art so. Farewell, maiden, the saints guard thee from one memory of regret at what hath passed between us!”
He pulled his bonnet hastily over his brows, and departed with unequal and rapid strides. As he passed the spot where Hastings stood leaning his arm upon the wall, and his face upon his hand, the nobleman looked up, and said,—
“Well, Sir Goldsmith, own at least that thy trial hath been a fair one!” Then struck with the anguish written upon Alwyn’s face, he walked up to him, and, with a frank, compassionate impulse, laid his hand on his shoulder. “Alwyn,” he said, “I have felt what you feel now; I have survived it, and the world hath not prospered with me less! Take with you a compassion that respects, and does not degrade you.”