The Last of the Barons — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (books to read for self improvement TXT) 📕
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“Alas!” said Warwick, “whether man be rich or poor, ingratitude is the vice of men; and you, who have felt it from the mob, menace me with it from the king. But each must carve out his own way through this earth, without over care for applause or blame; and the tomb is the sole judge of mortal memory.”
Robin looked hard at the earl’s face, which was dark and gloomy, as he thus spoke, and approaching nearer, he said, “Lord Warwick, I take from you liberty and life the more willingly, because a voice I cannot mistake tells me, and hath long told, that, sooner or later, time will bind us to each other. Unlike other nobles, you have owed your power not so much to lordship, land, and birth, and a king’s smile, as to the love you have nobly won; you alone, true knight and princely Christian,—you alone, in war, have spared the humble; you alone, stalwart and resistless champion, have directed your lance against your equals, and your order hath gone forth to the fierce of heart, ‘Never smite the commons!’ In peace, you alone have stood up in your haughty parliament for just law or for gentle mercy; your castle hath had a board for the hungry and a shelter for the houseless; your pride, which hath bearded kings and humbled upstarts, hath never had a taunt for the lowly; and therefore I—son of the people—in the people’s name, bless you living, and sigh to ask whether a people’s gratitude will mourn you dead! Beware Edward’s false smile, beware Clarence’s fickle faith, beware Gloucester’s inscrutable wile! Mark, the sun sets!—and while we speak, yon dark cloud gathers over your plumed head.”
He pointed to the heavens as he ceased, and a low roll of gathering thunder seemed to answer his ominous warning. Without tarrying for the earl’s answer, Hilyard shook the reins of his steed, and disappeared in the winding of the lane through which he took his way.
CHAPTER V. WHAT FAITH EDWARD IV. PURPOSETH TO KEEP WITH EARL AND PEOPLE.
Edward received his triumphant envoy with open arms and profuse expressions of gratitude. He exerted himself to the utmost in the banquet that crowned the day, not only to conciliate the illustrious new comers, but to remove from the minds of Raoul de Fulke and his officers all memory of their past disaffection. No gift is rarer or more successful in the intrigues of life than that which Edward eminently possessed,—namely, the hypocrisy of frankness. Dissimulation is often humble, often polished, often grave, sleek, smooth, decorous; but it is rarely gay and jovial, a hearty laughter, a merry, cordial, boon companion. Such, however, was the felicitous craft of Edward IV.; and, indeed, his spirits were naturally so high, his good humour so flowing, that this joyous hypocrisy cost him no effort. Elated at the dispersion of his foes, at the prospect of his return to his ordinary life of pleasure, there was something so kindly and so winning in his mirth, that he subjugated entirely the fiery temper of Raoul de Fulke and the steadier suspicions of the more thoughtful St. John. Clarence, wholly reconciled to Edward, gazed on him with eyes swimming with affection, and soon drank himself into uproarious joviality. The archbishop, more reserved, still animated the society by the dry and epigrammatic wit not uncommon to his learned and subtle mind. But Warwick in vain endeavoured to shake off an uneasy, ominous gloom. He was not satisfied with Edward’s avoidance of discussion upon the grave matters involved in the earl’s promise to the insurgents, and his masculine spirit regarded with some disdain, and more suspicion, a levity that he considered ill-suited to the emergence.
The banquet was over, and Edward, having dismissed his other attendants, was in his chamber with Lord Hastings, whose office always admitted him to the wardrobe of the king.
Edward’s smile had now left his lip; he paced the room with a hasty stride, and then suddenly opening the casement, pointed to the landscape without, which lay calm and suffused in moonlight.
“Hastings,” said he, abruptly, “a few hours since and the earth grew spears! Behold the landscape now!”
“So vanish all the king’s enemies!”
“Ay, man, ay,—if at the king’s word, or before the king’s battle-axe; but at a subject’s command—No, I am not a king while another scatters armies in my realm at his bare will. ‘Fore Heaven, this shall not last!”
Hastings regarded the countenance of Edward, changed from affable beauty into terrible fierceness, with reflections suggested by his profound and mournful wisdom. “How little a man’s virtues profit him in the eyes of men!” thought he. “The subject saves the crown, and the crown’s wearer never pardons the presumption!”
“You do not speak, sir!” exclaimed Edward, irritated and impatient. “Why gaze you thus on me?”
“Beau sire,” returned the favourite, calmly, “I was seeking to discover if your pride spoke, or your nobler nature.”
“Tush!” said the king, petulantly, “the noblest part of a king’s nature is his pride as king!” Again he strode the chamber, and again halted. “But the earl hath fallen into his own snare,—he hath promised in my name what I will not perform. Let the people learn that their idol hath deceived them. He asks me to dismiss from the court the queen’s mother and kindred!”
Hastings, who in this went thoroughly with the earl and the popular feeling, and whose only enemies in England were the Woodvilles, replied simply,—
“These are cheap terms, sire, for a king’s life and the crown of England.”
Edward started, and his eyes flashed that cold, cruel fire, which makes eyes of a light colouring so far more expressive of terrible passions than the quicker and warmer heat of dark orbs. “Think you so, sir? By God’s blood, he who proffered them shall repent it in every vein of his body! Hark ye, William Hastings de Hastings, I know you to be a deep and ambitious man; but better for you had you covered that learned brain under the cowl of a mendicant friar than lent one thought to the counsels of the Earl of Warwick.”
Hastings, who felt even to fondness the affection which Edward generally inspired in those about his person, and who, far from sympathizing, except in hate of the Woodvilles, with the earl, saw that beneath that mighty tree no new plants could push into their fullest foliage, reddened with anger at this imperious menace.
“My liege,” said he, with becoming dignity and spirit, “if you can thus address your most tried confidant and your lealest friend, your most dangerous enemy is yourself.”
“Stay, man,” said the king, softening. “I was over warm, but the wild beast within me is chafed. Would Gloucester were here!”
“I can tell you what would be the counsels of that wise young prince, for I know his mind,” answered Hastings.
“Ay, he and you love each other well. Speak out.”
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