Chapter IV New Friends
On the following day Henrietta was nothing loath to have good sport with Agnes, and Patience was forced to yield to their desires. Down to the lake they went, found the Newbolts there, and after a little persuasion Henrietta ventured on the ice. They brought a chair for her, and she was content at first to let Mr. Delarry push her; but Agnes gave her hands to Ann and Reginald and went off. Presently she came back alone, so sure of foot was she; her figure was so light and easy.
“Do try,” she said to Henrietta; “it is just lovely!” And the princess let herself be persuaded.
Other gentlemen and ladies joined them, and there was much laughter and many tumbles, but no one was hurt. The time passed quickly, until the winter day was drawing to a close, and still they were not tired.
“I should never be tired,” said Agnes, her face rosy with the keenness of the air, and her eyes very bright.
This went on for well-nigh a week. The court party they were called; they were so happy. All the commoners made way for them as they went hither and thither, gliding over the ice. Indeed, people came from afar and stood on the edge of the lake looking at them.
The princess, Agnes, Ann, and Reginald, were the principal actors in that scene. The two girls, muffled in their soft furs, with their petticoats above their ankles, showing their pretty feet, were a sight to rejoice the heart, as the sight of all young things must be. The winter sunshine glinted in Agnes’s bright hair, and lit up her dark eyes with the happiest, softest merriment.
“I never saw such a pretty creature!” said Reginald to Ann, when she had left them after the day’s sport.
“Take care. You will be losing your heart to her!” said Ann, laughing.
“I have done that long ago,” he answered. “The first time she looked at me she took my heart away with her. If I had not been a king’s man before, she would have made me one.”
“She is but twelve years old,” said Ann, laughing; “you will have to wait long for her, Reginald.”
“And the time will seem but short,” he answered, “if I may but see her once and again. Do you know her name, Ann?”
“Agnes, I have heard; nothing more,” she answered. “But that young man, Delarry, said casually that she had been the darling of the queen-mother and the princess ever since she was a baby. Nobody knows aught about her save the queen and Mistress Patience, who carried her over to France when she was almost in swaddling clothes.”
“I was sure of it,” said Reginald. “She is a child of one of the great old families; she looks it, my little sweetheart!” And from that time forth Reginald hovered round Agnes, and people laughed at her and called him her knight, and she was mighty pleased and made no little boast of her handsome cavalier.
It was all so open, so fresh, this budding love; without depth or passion, it had sprung up like the flowers, and like them was pure and serene. There was no past, no future for those young creatures; they lived just for the hour, as with flying feet they skimmed the ice, the fresh, sharp air cutting their faces. The joy of life was with them and upon them as it never would be again. They did not recognize how with each fleeting moment a joy-note sounded and died away. In after-years they would listen for the echo with that intense longing of hearts which have known unalloyed happiness; would they hear it again, or would it go from them for ever, with the flitting moments? Blessed are those who like them have heard it, whose lips have uttered the words, “I am so happy, so happy!”
They came like a song of joy to Agnes’s lips as she went hither and thither with Reginald beside her. He, bending towards her, said with a note of triumph in his voice:
“I would this might last for ever, my little sweetheart——”
“For ever!” she repeated. “For ever! Why not?”
He had not the heart to cast a shadow on that joy. Why tell her nothing lasts for ever? And so he only answered, “Why not?”
On the morrow the order came: “Back to Somerset House; the air is purified; Christmas is coming; you must come back.”
Before leaving, the princess sent for Reginald Newbolt and his sister, and they bade each other farewell. “It will not be for long,” said the princess. “I will ask my mother, the queen, to make you one of her maids of honour, Mistress Ann; so you may live with us, for I have taken a great liking to you.”
“I am afraid the queen will not favour me,” was the quiet answer. “I have not been brought up after your foreign fashion. I do not know your ways or manners. I am a plain English girl.”
“Oh, that does not matter at all! We have many English ladies in our suite, and the queen loves them well.”
“But my mother would not let me dwell in the queen’s household; she says it is godless,” said Ann, colouring deeply; “it would, I think, break her heart.”
“Ah well,” said Henrietta carelessly, “you must please yourself if you are so over-strict.”
“Say rather, I must obey my mother,” answered Ann; “but nevertheless I am grateful to you and thank you.” And she stooped and kissed the princess’s hand. So they parted.
As she was going out Patrick Delarry met her. He was an Irishman who had been with the queen in France, and of earthly possessions had few; but he was a true Irishman, full of jokes and fun, taking things lightly even as the Stuarts did, and, because of this very carelessness, the noble sweetness of Ann had attracted him.
They met in the corridor leading to the grand staircase. He paused, bowed before her, saying, “This is no farewell, Mistress Ann; we shall meet in London.”
“Maybe we shall; maybe we shall not,” returned Ann. “The princess is very good and desires to give me a place at court, but my mother would not hear of such a thing; she is strict in her conduct, and has brought her children up as strictly.”
“I am sorry,” said Delarry, “but I daresay she is right. Still, that will not prevent our meeting, Mistress Ann. Your father is serving the king; your brother will have a commission in the Guards; surely you will mix in good society?”
“I greatly fear not,” answered Ann. “My mother says that young maidens should remain at home, and that the court is full of snares.”
Delarry laughed. “It is pretty bad,” he said, “but you will remember that if you owe your duty to your mother, you owe it also to the king, your master. If he bids you attend upon his sister, surely you will not refuse. Somerset House is not Whitehall.”
He spoke with significance, and Ann coloured slightly, for she knew well that the king’s palace was far too gay and frivolous a place for young maidens who respected themselves.
“If I am summoned to Somerset House,” she said, “and my father desires I should go there, I hope my mother will let me, for the princess is very sweet to me and my heart inclines towards her. As for little Agnes,” and she laughed lightly, “I do not think we shall lose sight of her. My brother has lost his heart to her.”
“That is very evident,” said Mr. Delarry; “she is a pretty child.”
“I must bid you adieu,” said Ann. She curtsied and went quickly on her way down the corridor. Delarry stood a second and watched her till she disappeared.
“A pretty Puritan maiden; I didn’t know they were so smart,” he thought. “It will not be my fault if we do not meet again before long, Mistress Ann.” And so he too went his way.
That same afternoon the princess and Agnes, with Patience, entered the royal coach, and were driven back to Somerset House. They were neither of them very cheerful, and the way seemed long and cold, for the air was heavy with snow ready to fall. London looked dark and sombre when they entered it, with only the great torches flaring as the torch-bearers held them on high in front of the coach to guide the driver through the narrow streets of the city. The courtyard of Somerset House was also lit up; but it was a sad home-coming, nevertheless, and the queen-mother welcomed them with tears.
“I do not know how it is,” she said to her daughter. “I loved this country once and I was happy; now I am miserable here. I would go back to France; this death of your brother is an evil omen.”
“Nay, Mother, do not go just yet,” said Henrietta. “We have come home at a bad season of the year. You tell me that the spring is lovely in England; let us wait and see;” then, sitting before the fire, she and Agnes told her what good sport they had at Hampton Court, and they spoke of Reginald and Ann.
The queen frowned. “Patience is over-indulgent to you,” she said. “You have no right to make the acquaintance of strangers, especially of these upstarts. You say the father is Colonel Newbolt; he was one of Cromwell’s men. Now, because it suits himself and his purse, he is a king’s man. To-morrow, if it suits him, he will be the people’s man again. I am sick of it all.”
“Do you not think it well, Mother, to encourage these people to become faithful lieges to the king?” said Henrietta.
“Faithful!” said the queen, with a mocking laugh. “I have ceased to look for faithfulness anywhere. As soon as you are married, Henrietta—and that will, I trust, be before long—we will go back to France. Your brother’s court does not suit me, and his friends do not suit me. Your brother, the Duke of York, is enamoured of Clarendon’s daughter, Ann Hyde, and there has been much scandal—a secret marriage. It has set the people talking. I tell you I am sick of it all. There is a vulgarity which savours not of kings in the whole tone of England now.”
Her daughter did not answer her; she could not—she did not understand what was amiss. She was but a girl still. When she was a woman she understood better.
Fortunately it was nearly Christmas time, and so that season brought a certain amount of gaiety and brightness. They were not accustomed to make as much of it in France as in England, where, then as now, everyone rejoiced, everyone made merry. It had gone out of fashion to a great extent during the Commonwealth, but people were glad to go back to their old ways and drag the Yule-log into the great hall. It was a good season for the poor, when before great fires bullocks and sheep were roasted whole in the streets. There were mummers, and morris-dances, and all manner of sports.
To Agnes’s great disgust a week or two before Christmas she received a letter from Ann, telling her that they were going away down to their country place, because their mother could not abide in London. She was willing to feast the poor in the country and those who needed help, but the frivolities of London did not suit her, and she would not stay there. Indeed, she was afraid her mother would not let her come back, which grieved her sorely, for she loved her friends, and would have gladly served the Princess Henrietta.
When she received this letter Agnes wept bitterly.
“Is there no means by which she could be brought to court?” she said to Patience.
“I know of none except by the king’s command,” said Patience, “and unfortunately the queen-mother is not well inclined towards the Newbolts.”
“Where is their country place?” asked Agnes.
“How should I know?” answered Patience. “They are new people who have old lands which by rights belong to others.”
She spoke bitterly, and Agnes noticed it.
“Well,” she said, “I like the Newbolts; I met the colonel last week when he was presented to the king. He is a fine man, but the queen received him coldly; and when I asked the princess why her mother did so, she said, ‘Because she misdoubts all old Parliamentarians. There is not one of them but had a hand in my father’s death’.”
“‘Well, at least Reginald hadn’t,’” I said. “He was very young at the time, and both he and Ann have told me that when they heard of the king’s death they wept and stamped their feet at their father, saying it was a shame, for which their mother flogged them both and sent them to bed with bread and water. ‘But it only made us more loyal,’ Ann said. By the bye, Patience, do you know I saw Reginald ride past the other day on his way to Whitehall in the full uniform of the King’s Guard? He looked so handsome.”
“Where did you see him from?” asked Patience.
“Oh, from the stained mullion window in the corridor behind my room. I often go and stand there because I see into the Strand. I think I like the town better than the river.”
“Happily, it is a stained window, so people do not see you,” said Patience. “It is not seemly for a maiden to be staring on to the public road.”
“But people do see me,” said Agnes. “Reginald saw me, and he saluted. You know he is my knight, Patience.”
“I know I will not suffer you to behave thus,” said Patience. “A cavalier saluting a maiden at her window, above all things a maiden in Somerset House! It must not be, Agnes; you are old enough to know better.”
“I do not know what I am,” answered the girl impetuously. “Sometimes I am a child, sometimes a girl, sometimes I am almost a grown woman, as suits your fancy, Patience.” And the big tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her face.
“My pretty, my pretty, do not weep,” said Patience, and she put her arm round the girl’s waist and drew her upon her lap. “You must mind what I am going to say to you, Agnes,” she continued. “You are not like other girls, and you must be circumspect. You have no one to defend you from evil tongues, no one to lift you up if you were to fall; you are alone. The queen loved your mother; your father died for her husband, and so she harbours you; but she may not always do so. The day may come when she will go back to France, and that will be no place for you when the princess is married.”
“Why not—why not?” said Agnes. “I shall go with her.”
“Not if I can help it,” answered Patience. “I love you too well, my dove, to let you scorch your wings in the court of the Palais Royal and Versailles. We must remain in England, Agnes, and the king must pension you; it is your due.”
“But have I no kith or kin, no one belonging to me?” asked the girl.
“No one,” answered Patience, “at least that I know of.”
“And did my father and mother leave me no wealth and no lands?” said Agnes.
“What gold they had,” said Patience, “I took to France with me, and all these years it has served us. There is not much left, and as for lands they are forfeited. Cromwell did what he chose with them and gave them to whom he would. So you see, my child, you must be prudent. One thing you have which you must hold—your good name.”
“Agnes Beaumont,” said the girl.
“That is not all, you have another name,” said Patience, looking at her, “but I have sworn not to reveal it to you until your wedding day or till you are of age.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Why should not I know my own name?”
“Because it might be a danger to you,” answered Patience. “There are those who might wish you ill and do you wrong. When you have a husband you will have someone to defend you; when you are of age you must judge for yourself.”
“Does no one except you know who I am?” asked Agnes.
“Yes, the queen-dowager knows, and the king,” said Patience. “When he gives you back what is yours, then he will tell you himself what your station is.”
Tears gathered in Agnes’s eyes.
“I do not like it,” she said. “Have I anything to be ashamed of?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Ashamed!” exclaimed Patience. “No, indeed! far from that. I tell you it is for your own personal good, to shield you from those who have taken your lands from you and who might resent their being restored to you. You are the last of your race; your very birth has been hidden, but it will all come right one day if only you will be patient.”
“Very well,” said Agnes, “I will ask no questions; I will wait. It does not really matter, only I heard someone say the other day, ‘Agnes Beaumont! What Beaumont is that?’ and no one seemed to know.”
“It was your mother’s name,” said Patience; “you have a right to bear it, for you were christened Agnes Beaumont. Your father’s name alone is wanting, and that you will surely claim one day, either you or your husband for you.”
“Oh, that husband!” said Agnes, laughing; “I wonder who he will be!”
“A noble gentleman, I trust,” said Patience, “who will give you back all that you have lost.”
Agnes pouted.
“I do not care to go to any man as a beggar girl,” she answered proudly.
“That you surely will not,” answered Patience. “Have no fear. And now let me dress you. The princess is going to Whitehall with the queen to-night, and you are to accompany her. It is a mistake, a great mistake,” continued Patience; “you are too young.”
“Ah! but I like it,” said Agnes; “I like going to the king’s court, and, if the Princess Henrietta goes, surely it cannot hurt me.”
Patience shook her head.
“I am not so sure of that,” she said.
“Oh, well, never mind!” said Agnes; “you dear old thing, you are always frightened lest something should befall me. Let me wear my satin gown embroidered with rosebuds to-night; it becomes me well.”
“You cannot,” said Patience; “the court is in mourning still, have you forgotten?”
“Ah! yes, I forgot,” said Agnes. “The poor duke. Well, give me my lilac gown with the black knots.” And thus soberly attired she went to court.