Probably there is a period in the life of every one--if it be not cut short in very early years, when the blossom is still upon the trees of existence--in which the heart is so depressed by a reiteration of those misfortunes which generally come in groups, that the unexpected announcement of an unnamed visitor causes us to look up with a feeling of dread, as if some new sorrow were about to be added to the list of those endured. But such was not yet the case with Richard of Woodville, for though many of the events which had lately passed, had tended to make him somewhat more grave and thoughtful than in younger days, yet neither griefs, nor anxieties, nor disappointments had been heavy enough to weigh down a spirit naturally buoyant. His heart might be called light and free; for, though burdened with some cares, and tied by the silver chain of love, yet hope, bright, vigorous, rarely-tiring hope, helped him to carry his load; and the bond between him and sweet Mary Markham was not one to fetter the energies of his mind, or to dim the brightness of expectation. But above all things his bosom was perfectly free from guile; and in a house so cleanly kept, there is always light, unless every window be closed by the hands of death or of despair.

He looked, therefore, to see who the stranger could be that asked for him, with some curiosity perhaps, but no alarm, and was surprised but well pleased, when the figure of honest Hugh of Clatford darkened the door.

"Ah, Hugh!" he exclaimed, "is that you? What has brought you to Westminster? Are you also going to seek service in foreign lands?"

"Faith, sir, I know not what I am going to do," replied the good yeoman; "I came up here with my lord, and wait his pleasure."

"With your lord!" exclaimed Woodville, in astonishment; "and what, in the name of fortune and all her freaks, has brought my uncle to Westminster?--Was he summoned to the coronation?"

"Good truth, noble sir, I know not," answered Hugh of Clatford. "He has not told me why he came; but I chanced to meet your man Hob, and asked him where you were to be found, but to come and see you and how you fared."

"Thanks, Hugh, thanks!" replied Richard of Woodville.

But whom has my uncle with him?"

He would have fain asked if Mary Markham was near; but the question would not be spoken, and Hugh of Clatford saved him the trouble of farther inquiry. "He has brought no one but myself," he said, "and Roger Vale, and Martin the henchman, and one or two lads with the horses, and a page, and the Lady Mary--"

"Ah! and is that sweet lady here?" asked Woodville, in as calm and grave a tone as a very joyous heart could use. "But has he not brought my cousin Isabel?"

"No, good sooth," rejoined the yeoman; "he and the Lady Mary came off in haste on the arrival of a messenger from London."

"That is strange," said Richard of Woodville;--but then he thought that, perchance his friend Harry Dacre had sped well in his suit to Isabel, and that the old knight might have left her to cheer him at the hall. Nor was such a course unlikely in that age; for there were then fewer observances and stiff considerations of propriety than in later days, since rules and regulations more powerful, though but of air, than the locks and eunuchs of an Eastern harem, have tied down the most innocent intercourse of those who love, and every lady in the land is watched with the dragon's eyes of parental prudence. Love was then looked upon with reverence, and regarded as a safeguard rather than a peril. There was more confidence in virtue, more trust in honour.

After a short pause, Richard of Woodville inquired where his uncle was lodged; and to the great disappointment of his host, who, while he was still speaking with Hugh of Clatford, entered to set out the tables for the approaching meal, the young gentleman accompanied the good yeoman, fasting as he was, to visit good Sir Philip Beauchamp--as he said; but, in truth, to sun himself in Mary's eyes.

Fortune, though she be a spiteful jade, will occasionally favour true lovers; and she certainly showed herself particularly benign to Richard of Woodville in the present instance. Hurrying on with Hugh of Clatford, he made his way through the crowded streets of Westminster, till, at the outskirts of the town, near where now stands George Street, he reached the gates of a large house in a garden, where Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken up his abode. With all due reverence he asked for his uncle; but he must not be looked upon as a very undutiful nephew, if we admit that he was not a little rejoiced to find that the good old knight had gone forth, leaving fair Mary Markham behind.

Guided by Hugh of Clatford, who very well understood all that was passing in the young gentleman's heart, Richard was soon in his fair lady's bower; and certainly Mary's bright face expressed quite as much pleasure to see him as he could have desired. It expressed surprise also, however; and after chiding him, not very harshly, for a sweet liberty he took with her arched lips, she exclaimed, "But how are you here, Richard? I thought you were firm at Meon, polishing armour and trying horses."

Now Richard of Woodville, as soon as he heard that Mary was in the same city with himself, had formed his own conclusions in regard to various matters that had puzzled him the day before; and he answered, gaily, "What, deceiver! Do you think I do not know your arts? You would have me believe you were ignorant that I was here, and must tease your poor lover twice in the course of yesterday, by letting him hear your voice, yet hiding the face that he loves best, from his sight?"

"Nay, dear Richard," replied Mary, with a look of still greater surprise than before; "you are speaking riddles to me. You could not hear my voice yesterday, at least in Westminster--unless, indeed, it were late at night; and then it must have been in sad, dolorous tones, for I was very tired. We did not reach this place till three hours after dark. But what is it you mean, by daring to call Mary a deceiver, when you know right well I could not cheat you into thinking that I did not love you, though I tried hard to look as demure as a cat in the sunshine?"

"Are you sincere now, Mary?--are you telling me the truth?" asked Richard, still half inclined to doubt; but the moment after, he added, "Yet I know you are, my Mary, without guile. Truth gives you half your beauty, Mary; it lights your eyes, it smiles upon your lips. Yet this is very strange; and I thought that I had discovered the key to a mystery which must puzzle me still. But hear what has happened, and you shall judge;" and he proceeded to relate the injunctions which had been twice laid upon him the day before, by some unseen acquaintance in the crowd.

Mary Markham was not less surprised and puzzled than himself, especially as he persisted in asserting the words had been spoken by a female voice. But they soon abandoned that topic, to turn to others of deeper interest to their own two hearts--the cause of Sir Philip Beauchamp's journey to the capital, and the future fate of his fair companion.

"In truth, Richard," said Mary, in answer to some of his questions, "I am well nigh as ignorant as yourself of what is about to happen. All I know is, that Sir Philip told me I should probably soon see my father again."

"And who is your father, my sweet Mary?" asked Woodville, with a smile.

Mary gazed at him for an instant, with a look of touched and gratified affection, and then asked, "And did Richard of Woodville really seek poor Mary Markham's hand, then, without knowing aught of her state and station?--was he willing to take her dowerless, friendless, stationless, almost nameless?"

"Good faith, dear Mary," answered Woodville, "I should be right glad to take you any way I could get you; and if dower, or station, or friends, or aught else stand in the way, even down to this pretty robe whose hem I kiss, I pray you, Mary, cast it off! I shall be right glad to have you in your kirtle, if it be but of hodden grey."

Mary Markham smiled and blushed; and her bright, merry eyes acquired a softer and more glistening light from the dew of happy emotion that spangled her long eyelashes. "Well, Richard," she said, "I do not love you the less for that. 'Tis a bold speech, perhaps, and one that I should not make; but once having owned what I feel, why should I hide it now?"

"Fie on those who would blame you, dearest lady," answered Woodville: "who should feel shame for love? The brightest and the best of human feelings, surely, is no cause of shame; but we may all say, with the great poet--

"I cannot answer why, Richard," replied Mary, "but I know it is so, that all women feel some shame to own they love; and many affect more shame than they really feel. But I will not do so, dear Richard; for I think it is dishonesty to feign aught. I know I did feel shame, when one day, as we sat beside the river under the green trees, you won me to say more than I ever thought I could; and all that night, when I thought upon it, my cheek burned. But yet, in the moment of trial, I felt bold; and when your uncle asked me, I told him all. Nor do I see why I should conceal it now, even if I could, when you are about to go far, and that may be your only consolation in danger and in difficulty."

"It will be my strength and my support, dear Mary," answered Woodville; "and I do think that if I could but win a promise from you to be mine, it would so nerve my heart and arm in the hour of strife, that all men should own I had won you well--Say, will you promise, my sweet lady?"

"I will promise that I will, if I may," replied Mary; "but alas! Richard, the entire fulfilment of that promise must depend upon another. We poor women have but little power, even over our own fate and persons; but I will love none but you, Richard, wherever I go; and you will not doubt that love, though it be spoken so freely?"

"Nay, Heaven forbid!" said Richard of Woodville; "and were it not that you are my uncle's ward, I would put that love, dear Mary, to the proof, by asking you to fly with me and seek out some friendly priest who would bind our fate so fast together, that it would take greater power than any one in the land can boast, to sever it again. But I would not be ungrateful to one who has been a father to me."

"Nor must I be ungrateful, either to him or to my own father, Richard," replied Mary Markham; "you would not love me long if I could be so."

"I know you cannot, Mary," answered her lover; "but tell me who he is, Mary, that I may try to win him to hear my suit. I knew not that your father was alive--unless, indeed, the idle gossip--but no more of that. Whoever he be, I will trust to merit his esteem, and surely his daughter's love will be no bad commendation to him. I have hopes, too, of advancement, if ambition be his passion, such, indeed, as I have never had before. The King--he who was with us not a month ago as Hal of Hadnock--"

"Ay, Dacre told us who he was," cried Mary Markham.

"The King, he shows me great favour," continued Woodville, "and has given me letters to many at the court of Burgundy, promising to send for me, too, as soon as he has service for me here. With a true heart, and no unpractised hand, I do not fear that I shall fail of winning honour; and though I be but a poor gentleman, yet, as I do know that riches or poverty would make no difference in Mary Markham to me, so I cannot believe that it will change me in her eyes."

"Oh no!" she answered, but then added, with a sigh, "but my father, Richard! It is long since I have seen him, yet he was kind and noble, just and true, if I remember right. I recollect him well, with his grey hair, changed more by sorrow than time. I thought you knew the whole, for Isabel does; but I promised faithfully not to speak of my fate or his to any one, for reasons that he judged sufficient, when he gave me into good Sir Philip's charge; and I must not break my word even for you, Richard."

"Well, it matters not," answered Woodville; "certainly I would fain know who he is, for then I might court him as a lover does his bride, for Mary's sake: but yet you must keep your promise to him, and to me too; and whenever you are free to speak, you must give me tidings, dear girl; for in all the thousand chances of this world, I might mar my own hopes, even while seeking to fulfil them."

"I will, I will," replied Mary Markham; "but hark! I hear your uncle's step, Richard. I will but add one word more to cheer you. Perhaps, if I judge right, we may not be so long ere we meet again, as you suppose--and now, God prosper you, my own true squire."

As she spoke, the good old knight, Sir Philip Beauchamp, entered the room, with a grave and somewhat perplexed air. It soon became evident, however, that whatever annoyed or embarrassed him, it was not the presence of his nephew; for he greeted him kindly, holding out his hand to him, saying, "Ay, you here, foolish boy!--still the moth and the candle! But if you needs must love, why, let it lead you to honour and renown. What brought you to London? To buy arms?"

"No, sir; to see the King," replied his nephew. "He sent me a messenger, bearing letters for me to the court of Burgundy, and gave me to understand that I might come to visit him, if I would."

The old knight, in his meditative mood, seemed to catch some of Woodville's words, and miss the others. "Letters to the court of Burgundy," he said. "Well! from Harry of England, they should smooth thy path, boy. Would to Heaven, you two were not lovers!--Not that I would speak ill of love; 'tis the duty of every gentleman to vow his service to some fair lady. At least, as it was so in my young day; but we have sorely declined since then--sorely, sorely, nephew of mine; and love was then quite a different affair from now--when it must needs end in marriage, or worse. It was a high and ennobling passion in those times, leading knights and gentlemen to seek praise, and do high deeds; not for their own sakes, but for the honour of the ladies whom they served, nor requiring reward even from them, but for pure and high affection, and the pleasure of exalting them. Thus, many a man loved a lady--either placed far above him, or removed from his reach by being wedded to another--without sin, or shame, or presumption; for love, as I have said, was a high and ennobling feeling in those days, which taught men to do what is right, not what is wrong."

"Well, my noble uncle," replied Richard of Woodville, "and so it may be now; and it will have the same effect with me. But one thing I do know, that I would rather do high deeds to exalt my own wife, than another man's: I would rather serve a lady that I may win, than a lady I have no right to seek. Methinks it is both more honest and more safe; and, by God's blessing, I will win her, too, if I live long enough, and have fair play."

The old knight smiled. "Thou art a jesting coystrel, Dickon," he said; "and yet not a bad man at arms either. But times are changed, I tell thee, and not for the better. Thou thinkest according to the day, and cannot understand the past. When goest thou over seas, boy?"

"In a few days, sir," answered Richard of Woodville. "I think before a week be out."

Mary Markham's cheek turned a little pale, and the old knight meditated for a moment or two; after which he asked his nephew when he intended to quit London? Richard replied, that he went on the following morning; and Sir Philip, who had found a sad vacancy in the hall since Richard had left them for a time, and poor Catherine for ever, required that he should stay and keep them company for the rest of the day.

"Heaven knows, my poor Mary," he said, "how long we may have to remain in this place; and we shall soon find it dull enough. The people whom I expected to meet, have not yet appeared, and no tidings of them have come; so we may as well keep this idle boy to make us merry; and if he must go buy arms or lace jerkins for the court of Burgundy, why we will go with him to Gutherun's Lane and the Jury; and you shall ride your white palfrey for once along Cheape, with your gay side-saddle quilted with gold; though in my young days--before King Richard married Anne of Bohemia--never a lady in the land saw so foolish a contrivance."

It may well be supposed that neither Mary Markham nor Richard of Woodville was very much averse to such a proposal; and the rest of the day passed in that April-morn happiness which all must have felt, ere parting with those we love; when the cloudy thought of the dreary morrow comes hourly sweeping over the sunshine of the present, yet making the light seem more bright for the passing shadow. More than once, too, the lovers were left for awhile alone; and every moment added to their sweet store of vows and promises. Much was also told that they had not had time to tell before, though it was still spoken in rambling and unconnected form--the one predominant feeling always intruding, and calling their thoughts and words back to what was passing in their own hearts.

How many bitter moments pay for our sweet ones in this life! and yet how willing are we all to make the purchase, whatever be the price! The ambitious spirit of enjoyment is upon us, and we must still enlarge the sphere of our delight, though--as when a conqueror stretches the bounds of his empire, and thereby only exposes a wider frontier to attack--each new hope, each new pleasure, each new possession, but lays us open to loss, regret, and disappointment. It is a sad view of human life; but Richard of Woodville and Mary Markham found its truth when they came to feel how much more bitter was their parting, for the few sweet hours of happiness they had enjoyed.