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<h4>CHAPTER XIII.</h4><div class="poem0" style="margin-left:15%"> Let us Act freely, carelessly, and capriciously, as if our veins Ran with quicksilver.--Ben Jonson. Renown'd metropolis, With glistening spires and pinnacles adorn'd.--Milton. </div> It is strange, in the life of man, always fluctuating as he is between hope and fear, gratification and disappointment, with nothing fixed in his state of existence, and uncertainty surrounding him on every side, that suspense should be to him the most painful of all situations. One would suppose that habit would have rendered it easy for him to bear; and yet, beyond all questions, every condition of doubt, from uncertainty respecting our fate, to mere indecision of judgment, are all, more or less, painful in their degree. Who is it that has not often felt irritated, vexed, and unhappy, when hesitating between two different courses of action, even when the subject of deliberation involved but a trifle? Lady Katrine Bulmer, as has been already said, was grave and pensive when she reached Gravesend; and then, without honouring the knight with her company even for a few minutes, as he deemed that in simple courtesy she might have done, she retired to her chamber, and, shutting herself up with her two women, the only communication which took place between her and Sir Osborne was respecting the hour of their departure the next morning. The knight felt hurt and vexed; for though he needed no ghost to tell him that the lovely girl he was conducting to the court was as capricious as she was beautiful, yet her gay whims and graceful little coquetry, had both served to pique and amuse him, and he could almost have been angry at this new caprice, which deprived him of her society for the evening. The next morning, however, the wind of Lady Katrine's humour seemed again to have changed; and at the hour appointed for her departure she tripped down to her horse all liveliness and gaiety. Sir Osborne proffered to assist her in mounting, but in a moment she sprang into the saddle without aid, and turned round laughing, to see the slow and difficult manœuvres by which her women were fixed in their seats. The whole preparations, however, being completed, the cavalcade set out in the same order in which it had departed from the abbey the day before, and with the same number of persons; the poor priest whom they had delivered from the hands of the rioters being left behind, too ill to proceed with them to London. "Well, sir knight," said the gay girl as they rode forward, "I must really think of some guerdon to reward all your daring in my behalf. I hope you watched through the livelong night, armed at all points, lest some enemy should attack our castle?" "Faith, not I!" answered Sir Osborne; "you seemed so perfectly satisfied with the security of our lodging, lady, that I e'en followed your good example and went to bed." "Now he's affronted!" cried Lady Katrine. "Was there ever such a creature? But tell me, man in armour, was it fitting for me to come and sit with you and your horsemen in the tap-room of an inn, eating, drinking, and singing, like a beggar or a ballad-singer?" The knight bit his lip, and made no reply. "Why don't you answer, Sir Osborne?" continued the lady, laughing. "Merely because I have nothing to say," replied the knight, gravely; "except that at Sittenbourne, where you did me the honour of eating with me, though not with my horsemen, I did not perceive that Lady Katrine Bulmer was, in any respect, either like a beggar or ballad-singer." "Oh! very well, sir knight; very well!" she said. "If you choose to be offended I cannot help it." "You mistake me, lady," said Sir Osborne, "I am not offended." "Well then, sir, I am," replied Lady Katrine, making him a cold stiff inclination of the head. "So we had better say no more upon the subject." At this moment Longpole, who with the rest of the attendants followed at about fifty paces behind, rode forward, and put a small folded paper into Sir Osborne's hands. "A letter, sir, which you dropped," said he aloud; "I picked it up this moment." The knight looked at the address, and the small silken braid which united the two seals; and finding that it was directed to Lord Darby at York House, Westminster, was about to return it to Longpole, saying it was none of his, when his eye fell upon Lady Katrine, whose head, indeed, was turned away, but whose neck and ear were burning with so deep a red, that Sir Osborne doubted not she had some deep and blushing interest in the paper he held in his hand. "Thank you, Longpole! thank you," he said, "I would not have lost it for a hundred marks;" and he fastened it securely in the foldings of his scarf. Though he could willingly have punished his fair companion for her little capricious petulance, the knight could not bear to keep her in the state of agitation under which, by the painful redness of her cheek and the quivering of her hand on the bridle, he very evidently saw she was suffering. "I think your ladyship was remarking," said he, calmly, "that it was the height of dishonour and baseness to take advantage of anything that happens to fall in our power, or any secret with which we become acquainted accidentally. I not only agree with you so far, but I think even that a jest upon such a subject is hardly honourable. We should strive, if possible, to be as if we did not know it." Lady Katrine turned her full sunny face towards him, glowing like a fair evening cloud when the last rays of daylight rest upon it: "You are a good, an excellent creature," she said, "and worthy to be a knight. Sir Osborne Maurice," she continued, after a moment's pause, "your good opinion is too estimable to be lightly lost, and to preserve it I must speak to you in a manner that women dare seldom speak. And yet, though on my word, I would trust you as I would a brother, I know not how----I cannot, indeed I cannot. And yet I must, and will, for fear of misconstruction. You saw that letter. You can guess that he to whom it is addressed is not indifferent to the writer. They are affianced to each other by all vows, but those vows are secret ones; for the all-powerful Wolsey will not have it so, and we must needs seem, at least, to obey. Darby has been some time absent from the court, and I was sent to the abbey. What would you have more? I promised to give instant information of my return; and last night I spent in writing that letter, though now I know not in truth how to send it, for my groom is but a pensioned spy upon me." "Will you trust it to me?" said the knight. The lady paused. "Do you doubt me?" he asked. "Not in the least," she said; "not in the least. My only doubt is whether I shall send it at all." "Is there a hesitation?" demanded the knight in some surprise. "Alas! there is," answered she. "You must know all: I see it. Since I have been at the abbey they have tried to persuade me that Darby yields himself to the wishes of the cardinal; and is about to wed another. I believe it false! I am sure it is false! And yet, and yet----" and she burst into tears. "Oh, Sir Osborne!" she continued, drying her eyes, "I much need such a friend as you described yesterday." "Let me be that friend, then, so far as I may be," said Sir Osborne. "Allow me to carry the letter to London, whither I go after I have left you at the court at Greenwich. I will ascertain how Lord Darby is situated. If I find him faithful (which doubt not that he is, till you hear more), I will give him the letter; otherwise I will return it truly to you." "But you must be quick," said Lady Katrine, "in case he should hear that I have returned, and have not written. How will you ascertain?" "There are many ways," answered the knight; "but principally by a person whom I hope to find in London, and who sees more deeply into the hidden truth than mortal eyes can usually do." "Can you mean Sir Cesar?" demanded Lady Katrine. "I do," answered the knight. "Do you know that very extraordinary being?" "I know him as every one knows him," answered Lady Katrine; "that is, without knowing him. But if he be in London, and will give you the information, all doubt will be at an end; for what he says is sure: though, indeed, I often used to tease the queer little old man, by pretending not to believe his prophecies, till our royal mistress, whom God protect! has rated me for plaguing him. He was much a favourite of hers, and I somewhat a favourite of his; for those odd magical hop-o'-my-thumbs, I believe, love those best who cross them a little. He gave me this large sapphire ring when he went away last year, bidding me send it back to him if I were in trouble: quite fairy-tale like. So now, Sir Osborne, you shall carry it to him, and he will counsel you rightly. Put it in your cap, where he may see it. There now! it looks quite like some lady's favour; but don't go and tilt at every one who denies that Katrine Bulmer is the loveliest creature under the sun." "Nay, I must leave that to my Lord Darby," answered Sir Osborne. "Now, that was meant maliciously!" cried Lady Katrine. "But I don't care! Wait a little; and if there be a weak point in all your heart, sir knight, I'll plague you for your sly look." Lady Katrine Bulmer's spirits were of that elastic quality not easily repressed; and before ten minutes were over, all her gaiety returned in full force, nor did it cease its flow till their arrival in Greenwich. For his part, Sir Osborne strove to keep pace with her liveliness, and perhaps even forced his wit a little in the race, that he might not be behindhand. Heaven knows what was passing in his mind! whether it really was an accession of gaiety at approaching the court, or whether it was that he wished to show his fair companion that the discovery he had made of her engagements to Lord Darby did not at all mortify him, notwithstanding the little coquetry that she might have exercised upon himself. They now, however, approached the place of their destination, under the favourable auspice of a fair afternoon. The most pardonable sort of superstition is perhaps that which derives its auguries from the face of nature, leading us to fancy that the bright golden sunshine, the clear blue heaven, the soft summer breeze, and the cheerful song of heaven's choristers, indicate approaching happiness to ourselves; or that the cloud, the storm, and the tempest, come prophetic of evil and desolation. At least both hope and fear, the two great movers in all man's feelings, lend themselves strangely to this sort of divination, combining with the beauty of the prospect, or the brightness of the sky, to exalt our expectations of the future; or lending darker terrors to the frown of nature, and teaching us to dread or to despair. When Sir Osborne and his party arrived at the brow of Shooter's Hill, the evening was as fair and lovely as if it had been summer: one of those sweet sunsets that sometimes burst in between two wintry days in the end of March or the beginning of April: a sort of heralds to announce the golden season that comes on. The whole country round, as far as they could see, whether looking towards Eltham and Chiselhurst, or northwards towards the river, was one wide sea of waving boughs, just tinged with the first green of the spring; while the oblique rays of the declining sun, falling upon the huge bolls of the old oaks and beeches, caught upon the western side of each, and invested its giant limbs as with a golden armour. Every here and there, too, the beams, forcing their way through the various openings in the forest, cast across the road bright glimpses of that rich yellow light peculiar to wood scenery, and, alternated with the long shadows of the trees, marked the far perspective of the highway descending to the wide heath below. The eye rested not on the heath, though it, too, was glowing with the full effulgence of the sky; but passing on, caught a small part of the palace of Greenwich, rising above the wild oaks which filled the park; and then still farther turning towards the west, paused upon the vast metropolis, with its red and dizzy atmosphere, high above which rose the heavy tower and wooden spire of Old Paul's Church; while to the left, beyond the influence of the smoke, was seen standing almost alone, in solemn majesty, the beautiful pile of the West Minster. Sir Osborne Maurice impulsively reined in his horse, and seemed as if he could scarcely breathe when the whole magnificent scene rushed at once upon his view. "So this is London!" cried he; "the vast, the wealthy, and the great; the throne of our island monarchs, from whence they sway a wide and powerful land. On! on!" and striking his horse with his spurs, he darted down the road, as if he were afraid that the great city would, before he reached it, fade away like the splendid phantasms seen by the Sicilian shepherds, showing for a moment a host of castles, and towers, and palaces, and then fleeting by, and leaving nought but empty air! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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