CHAP. III. "Friendship is constant in all other things, SHAKSPEARE. It would be a tedious task to relate the incidents of the week following the arrival of Edward Fitzeustace at the Manor. The guests who assembled at it in the course of a few days, were distinguished by no characteristics more striking or interesting than those usually found in country neighbours of the present day. There were amongst them keen sportsmen, who preferred a good dog or horse to all other earthly blessingsyoung knights, who were as ambitious of the distinction of being well-dressed, and finding favour in the eyes of fair ladies, as any exquisite of the nineteenth century-and a few of a higher and better order; to all, however, the ceremonious courtesy of the day gave the same general resemblance of manner, that their armour did of appearance. The hospitality of Leighton was profuse, the revelry unceasing; and, whilst the knights pursued their hunting or hawking, the ladies beguiled their lonely hours by comparing patterns of tapestry, discussing shades of wool, fashions, and characters, in a very similar manner with their fair descendants of 1846. Constance de Lingard, as adopted daughter of the house, was called on, constantly, to amuse the indolence, or to listen to the loquacity, of the lovely visitors, and, above all, to hide from the shrewdness of feminine penetration, that she was unhappy, absent, and dispirited. It was indeed a trial of patience, oftentimes, to listen to the twice-told tale of the ancient dame's conquests over the hearts of knights, "braver and more courteous than were to be found in the degenerate days in which her age was cast;" or to the idle scandal and important nothings of her younger and light-hearted companions. And, then, evening brought Edward to her side, to pierce her heart by his frank and confiding tenderness, so void of all suspicion of her truth! But there was an inward strength which supported the tired spirit through the weary day, and none suspected that the pillow of the fair creature who had so much added to their daily pleasure or comfort, was steeped in bitter and burning tears. And yet, during those hours of pleasure and careless enjoyment to many, were sown the germs of misery and guilt to oneof untimely and violent death for another. On the eager, susceptible, talented, but unprincipled Fitzwalter, the "bright innocence" of the betrothed's life; the unvarying sweetness of her manner; the still more captivating charm of her modestly concealed, yet sensible superiority, over the fair triflers around her, had produced their natural effect. He loved her sincerely as a selfish nature can love; the more ardently, perhaps, because it was almost an impossibility to win her-the affianced of his friend the bride whose nuptials were but delayed till the Baron Fitzwalter could leave his London fortress to be present at their celebration. And yet he was not without hope. The quick-sightedness of his newborn passion had assured him, that his friend's love was only permitted, not returned. He never dreamed of the possibility of Constance's heart having been given to the intended priest-soldier of the Temple; he would as soon have thought of a rival in Father Dennis; and as she mixed now, for the first time, in society, and distinguished him frequently from the assembled chivalry, what wonder was it that the vanity of the handsome courtier indulged in hopes of winning the affections of one so full of sensibility and of enthusiasm? Artfully did the traitor aim at the fulfilment of those hopes. He was unceasingly near Constance when Edward was not present. He anticipated her wishes, assisted her efforts to please her adopted father's guests, entertained her by his ever-varying conversation, or sang to her the love-lays of Provence with all the eloquence of real passion. But as he always resigned his place beside her when Edward approached them, and as a treason against his early friend would have appeared an impossible crime to the highminded maiden, she ascribed all his attentions to her to his friendship for her betrothed, and repaid them with a warmhearted gratitude which aided the delusions of vanity. Affairs had thus proceeded at the Hall, when a letter from the Lord of Baynard's Castle announced the impossibility of his visiting Leighton till the autumn, and with many courteous regrets and apologies entreated the knight not to delay the ceremony of his son's marriage on his account, but to offer to the fair bride, in his name, a small casket, containing a necklace of pearls of great value. The old knight was disappointed. The baron was the patron of his eldest son-the old and tried friend of his house-and he had even entertained a hope that Royalty itself—in the person of Richard Earl of Cornwall, the King's brother -might have accompanied the noble standard-bearer of the good City of London to Leighton. All were disappointed; Edward, |