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.”
 

Scott, The Reiver’s Wedding.

“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, not the fair rosy face, set in light yellow curls, that Grisell had now and then peeped at in a bucket of water or a polished breast-plate, but a piteous sight.  One half, as she expected, was hidden by bandages, but the other was fiery red, except that from the corner of the eye to the ear there was a purple scar; the upper lip was distorted, the hair, eyebrows, and lashes were all gone!  The poor child was found in an agony of sobbing when, after the service, the old woman who acted as her nurse came stumping up in her wooden clogs to set the chamber and bed in order for Lady Whitburn’s visit.

The dame was in hot haste to get home.  Rumours were rife as to Scottish invasions, and her tower was not too far south not to need to be on its guard.  Her plan was to pack Grisell on a small litter slung to a sumpter mule, and she snorted a kind of defiant contempt when the Countess, backed by the household barber-surgeon, declared the proceeding barbarous and impossible.  Indeed she had probably forgotten that Grisell was far too tall to be made up into the bundle she intended; but she then declared that the wench might ride pillion behind old Diccon, and she would not be convinced till she was taken up to the sick chamber.  There the first sound that greeted them was a choking agony of sobs and moans, while the tirewoman stood over the bed, exclaiming, “Aye, no wonder; it serves thee right, thou evil wench, filching my Lady Countess’s mirror from her very chamber, when it might have been broken for all thanks to thee.  The Venice glass that the merchant gave her!  Thou art not so fair a sight, I trow, as to be in haste to see thyself.  At the bottom of all the scathe in the Castle!  We shall be well rid of thee.”

So loud was the objurgation of the tirewoman that she did not hear the approach of her mistress, nor indeed the first words of the Countess, “Hush, Maudlin, the poor child is not to be thus rated!  Silence!”

“See, my lady, what she has done to your ladyship’s Venice glass, which she never should have touched.  She must have run to your chamber while you were at mass.  All false her feigning to be so sick and feeble.”

“Ay,” replied Lady Whitburn, “she must up—don her clothes, and away with me.”

“Hush, I pray you, madam.  How, how, Grisell, my poor child.  Call Master Miles, Maudlin!  Give me that water.”  The Countess was raising the poor child in her arms, and against her bosom, for the shock of that glance in the mirror, followed by the maid’s harsh reproaches, and fright at the arrival of the two ladies, had brought on a choking, hysterical sort of convulsive fit, and the poor girl writhed and gasped on Lady Salisbury’s breast, while her mother exclaimed, “Heed her not, Lady; it is all put on to hinder me from taking her home.  If she could go stealing to your room—”

“No, no,” broke out a weeping, frightened voice.  “It was I, Lady Aunt.  You bade me never tell her how her poor face looked, and when she begged and prayed me, I did not say, but I fetched the mirror.  Oh! oh!  It has not been the death of her.”

“Nay, nay, by God’s blessing!  Take away the glass, Margaret.  Go and tell thy beads, child; thou hast done much scathe unwittingly!  Ah, Master Miles, come to the poor maid’s aid.  Canst do aught for her?”

“These humours must be drawn off, my lady,” said the barber-surgeon, who advanced to the bed, and felt the pulse of the poor little patient.  “I must let her blood.”

Maudlin, whose charge she was, came to his help, and Countess Alice still held her up, while, after the practice of those days, he bled the already almost unconscious child, till she fainted and was laid down again on her pillows, under the keeping of Maudlin, while the clanging of the great bell called the family down to the meal which broke fast, whether to be called breakfast or dinner.

It was plain that Grisell was in no state to be taken on a journey, and her mother went grumbling down the stair at the unchancy bairn always doing scathe.

Lord Salisbury, beside whom she sat, courteously, though perhaps hardly willingly, invited her to remain till her daughter was ready to move.

“Nay, my Lord, I am beholden to you, but I may scarce do that.  I be sorely needed at Whitburn Tower.  The knaves go all agee when both my lord and myself have our backs turned, and my lad bairns—worth a dozen of yon whining maid—should no longer be left to old Cuthbert Ridley and Nurse.  Now the Queen and Somerset have their way ’tis all misrule, and who knows what the Scots may do?”

“There are Nevils and Dacres enough between Whitburn and the Border,” observed the Earl gravely.  However, the visitor was not such an agreeable one as to make him anxious to press her stay beyond what hospitality demanded, and his wife could not bear to think of giving over her poor little patient to such usage as she would have met with on the journey.

Lady Whitburn was overheard saying that those who had mauled the maid might mend her, if they could; and accordingly she acquiesced, not too graciously, when the Countess promised to tend the child like her own, and send her by and by to Whitburn under a safe escort; and as Middleham Castle lay on the way to Whitburn, it was likely that means would be found of bringing or sending her.

This settled, Lady Whitburn was restless to depart, so as to reach a hostel before night.

She donned her camlet cloak and hood, and looked once more in upon Grisell, who after her loss of blood, had, on reviving, been made to swallow a draught of which an infusion of poppy heads formed a great part, so that she lay, breathing heavily, in a deep sleep, moaning now and then.  Her mother did not scruple to try to rouse her with calls of “Grizzy!  Look up, wench!” but could elicit nothing but a half turn on the pillow, and a little louder moan, and Master Miles, who was still watching, absolutely refused to let his patient be touched or shaken.

“Well a day!” said Lady Whitburn, softened for a moment, “what the Saints will must be, I trow; but it is hard, and I shall let St. Cuthbert of Durham know it, that after all the candles I have given him, he should have let my poor maid be so mauled and marred, and then forsaken by the rascal who did it, so that she will never be aught but a dead weight on my two fair sons!  The least he can do for me now is to give me my revenge upon that lurdane runaway knight and his son.  But he hath no care for lassies.  Mayhap St. Hilda may serve me better.”

Wherewith the Lady of Whitburn tramped down stairs.  It may be feared that in the ignorance in which northern valleys were left she was very little more enlightened in her ideas of what would please the Saints, or what they could do for her, than were the old heathen of some unknown antiquity who used to worship in the mysterious circles of stones which lay on the downs of Amesbury.