Grisly Grisell | Page 7

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."
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 meine, 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