Agincourt Part 12

In the meantime, the old minstrel was brought in, and laid upon the pallet in the porter's room; and the news of the accident having spread, the lodge was speedily filled with nuns, having their veils down, all eagerly inquiring what had happened.

The prioress and brother Martin appeared at the same moment; and, in answer to their questions, Woodville explained the facts of the case; for the poor girl, overwhelmed with grief, was kneeling by her old companion's side, and holding a small ebony cross which she wore round her neck to his motionless lips.

"Give us room, my child--give us room!" said brother Martin, putting his hand kindly on her shoulder; and, having obtained access to the pallet, he and the prioress proceeded to examine what injuries the poor old man had received. Their search was short, however; for, after feeling the back of the head with his hand, and then putting his fingers on the pulse, the good monk turned round, with a grave countenance, saying, "G.o.d have mercy on his soul; for to Him has it gone."

The poor singer covered her eyes with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.

All the rest were silent for a moment; and then Richard of Woodville, turning to the prioress, said, in a low voice, "I will beseech you, lady, to see, in all charity, to this poor man's interment; and that ma.s.ses be said in your chapel for his soul. Also, if you would, like a good Christian, take some heed of this poor girl, who is his daughter, I suppose, I should be glad, for it may better become you than me; but whatever expense the convent may be at, I will repay, though, Heaven knows, I am not over rich. My name is Richard of Woodville; and to-morrow, if you will send a messenger to me, I shall be found at the Acorn, just beyond the Bishop of Durham's lodging. You must send before eight, however, or after ten; for at eight I am to be with the King."

The prioress bowed her head, saying simply, "I will," and Woodville turned to depart; but the poor girl, who had heard his words, started up, and catching his hand, pressed her lips upon it, then knelt by the pallet again, and seemed to pray.

Without farther words, Woodville quitted the lodge; the porter hurried on to open the gates, and the young gentleman went out with the people who had borne or accompanied the poor old minstrel thither. Just as he had reached the road, however, he heard a voice say, "Richard of Woodville, farewell; and remember!"

He started and turned round; but though it was a female voice that spoke, there were none but men around him; and at the same moment the gate rolled heavily to.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SICK MIND.

We must return, dear reader, for a short time, to the scenes in which our tale first began, and to the old hall of the good knight of Dunbury. Richard of Woodville and Sir Henry Dacre had been absent for two days upon their journey to another part of Hampshire, where we have shown somewhat of their course; and Sir Philip Beauchamp sat by the fire meditating, while his daughter Isabel, and fair Mary Markham, were seated near, plying busily the needle through the embroidery frame, and not venturing to disturb his reverie even by whispered conversation. From time to time, the old man muttered a few sentences to himself, of which the two ladies could only catch detached fragments, such as, "They must know by this time,--Dacre could not but do so,--I am sure 'tis for that--," and several similar expressions, showing that his mind was running upon the expedition of his nephew and his friend, in regard to the object of which, neither Isabel nor Mary had received any information.

It must not be said, however, that they did not suspect anything; for the insinuations of Sir Simeon of Roydon had been told them; and, though neither weak nor given to fear--a knight's daughter, in a chivalrous age--Isabel could not help looking forward with feelings of awe, and an undefinable sinking of the heart, to the events which were likely to follow. She fully believed that she experienced, and had ever experienced, towards Sir Henry Dacre, but one cla.s.s of sensations--regard for his high character and n.o.ble heart, and pity for the incessant grief and anxiety which her cousin's conduct had brought upon him from his early youth. But such feelings are very treacherous guides, and lead us far beyond the point at which they tell us they will stop. With her, too, they had had every opportunity of so doing, for she trusted to them in full confidence. Hers had been the task, also, of soothing and consoling him under all he had suffered--a dangerous task, indeed, for one young, kind, gentle, and enthusiastic, to undertake towards a man whom she admired and respected. But then, they had known each other from infancy, she thought; they had grown up together like brother and sister, and the tie between them had only been brought nearer by the betrothing of Dacre to her cousin.

Had a doubt ever entered into Isabel's mind, since Catherine's death, it may be asked, in regard to her own feelings towards Dacre? Perhaps it might; but, if so, it had been banished instantly; and she looked upon the very thought as a wrong to her own motives. She would never suffer such a thing, she fancied, to trouble her again. "Dacre had loved Catherine--surely he had loved her; and yet--" but fresh doubts arose; and Isabel, willing to be blind, still turned to other meditations.

Mary Markham, on the other hand, with less cause for anxiety, and no motive for shutting her eyes, saw more clearly, and judged more accurately. She knew that Isabel Beauchamp loved Harry Dacre, and believed she had loved him long; though she did her full justice, and was confident that her fair companion was as ignorant of what was in her own bosom, as of the treasures beneath the waves. But Mary felt certain that such was not the case with Dacre in regard to his own sensations. She had marked his eye when it turned upon Isabel, had seen the faint smile that came upon his lip when he spoke to her, and had observed the struggle which often took place, when inclination led him to seek her society, and the thought of danger and of wrong held him back--a struggle in which love had been too often victorious. She doubted not, that he was gone to call upon Simeon of Roydon to come forward with proof of his charges, or to sustain them with the lance; and, though she entertained little doubt of the issue of such a combat, if it took place, she felt grieved and anxious both for Isabel and Dacre.

There are some men whose native character, notwithstanding every artifice to conceal it, will penetrate through all disguises, and produce sensations which seem unreasonable, even to those who feel them without being able to trace them to their source. Such a one was Sir Simeon of Roydon. He had never been seen by any of Sir Philip Beauchamp's family to commit any base or dishonest act; and yet there was not one in all that household, from the old knight to the horse-boy, who did not internally believe him to be capable of every crafty knavery. His insinuations, therefore, in regard to Sir Henry Dacre, pa.s.sed by as empty air, at least for the time; but all had, nevertheless, a strong conviction on their minds, that the doubts he had attempted to raise would rankle deep in the heart of their unhappy object, and poison the whole course of his existence, unless some fortunate event were to bring to light the real circ.u.mstances of poor Catherine Beauchamp's death.

The whole party, then, were in a sad and gloomy mood; and even the gay, young spirit of Mary Markham was clouded, as they sat round the fire in the great hall, on one of those April evenings when, after a day of summer sunshine, chilly winter returns with his fit companion, night.

As they were thus seated, however, each busy with his own thoughts, the sound of horses' feet in the court was heard, and, in a minute after, Dacre himself entered. He mounted the steps at the end of the pavement with a slow pace, and every eye was turned to his countenance to gather some indication from his look of the state of mind in which he returned. The old knight rose and grasped his hand, asking, in a low voice, "What news, Harry? Nay, boy, you need not strive to conceal it from me--I know what you went for. Will the slanderer do battle?"

"No, my n.o.ble friend," replied Dacre; "he is coward, too, as well as scoundrel. There is his craven answer; you may read it aloud. The matter is now over, and that hope is gone."

"You should not have done this, Harry, without consulting me," said Sir Philip; "I have some experience in such things. At the very last that was fought between any two gentlemen of rank and station, I was judge of the field, and know right well what appertains to knightly combat."

"Of that I was full sure," answered Dacre, pressing his hand; "and to you I should have applied for counsel and aid, as soon as I had brought him to the point; but I thought it best to be silent till that was done. I was vain, perhaps, Sir Philip, to think that these dear ladies might take some interest in such a matter--might feel anxious even for me; and though I knew that they would have seen me go forth, with satisfaction, in defence of my honour, and would have bade G.o.d speed me on my course, yet it was needless to speak of what was to come, till it did come--and you will see, that it is to be never."

"Read it, Hal--read it," said the knight; "my eyes are old."

Sir Henry Dacre read the letter, the contents of which we have already seen, and Sir Philip Beauchamp and Mary Markham commented freely thereon, marking well its baseness and its craft; but Isabel remained silent; and, looking down at her embroidery, her bright eyes let fall a tear. Many emotions mingled to produce that drop; she felt to her heart's core how bitter it must be to live with such a doubt hanging over us for ever, like a dark cloud; and the repeated mention of Catherine's name called back to her mind, in all its freshness, the memory of her cousin's sad fate; and she was led on to think, too, how happy the wayward girl might have been, if she had but known the advantages which Heaven had granted her.

Dacre saw the tear, and marked the silence, and read neither quite aright; for, with a wounded spot in the heart, the lightest touch will give torture. He sat down with the rest, however; he strove to cast off some of his gloom; he told of his journey with Richard of Woodville; and informed the old knight that his late guest, Hal of Hadnock, was now King of England; but, while Sir Philip laughed heartily, and called his sovereign "a mad-headed boy," his young friend relapsed into deep meditation, and the black thought, that he must be for ever a doubted and suspected man, again took possession of his mind.

The next morning, when he rose, he was more cheerful. Sleep, which had visited his eyelids only by short glimpses for the last week, had, this night, stayed with him undisturbed; and, what seemed to him more extraordinary still, sweet dreams had come with slumber, giving him back the happiness of former days. He had seemed a boy again, and had wandered with Isabel Beauchamp through the woods and fields around; had heard the birds sing on the spray, and watched the fish darting through the stream. Summer and sunshine had been round their path, and that misty splendour, which only is seen in the visions of the night, as if poured forth from some secret source in the heart of man when the pressure of all external things is taken away--a slight indication, perhaps, of the adaptation of his spirit to the enjoyments of a brighter world than this. He slept longer than usual; and, when he rose, he found the old knight and his daughter in the hall.

"I am going down, Harry," said Sir Philip, "to settle a difference between some of the monks and Roger Dayley, of Little Ann, about his field. I shall find you when I come back."

"Nay, I will go with you, n.o.ble friend," answered Dacre; "I wish to see my good Lord Abbot."

"That you cannot do, unless you ride to London," replied the old knight; "he went yesterday morning early to attend the King's coronation. Stay with Isabel and Mary. I will be back soon."

It was too tempting a proposal to be refused; and while Sir Philip, with a page carrying his heavy sword, walked down to the Abbey, Dacre remained with Isabel alone in the hall. They watched her father from the door till he entered the wood, and then turning, walked up and down the rush-covered pavement for several minutes without speaking.

Dacre's heart was full of anxious thoughts; and though he much wished to fathom the feelings of Isabel's heart, and discover some ground for future hope, yet he dreaded to find all his fears verified; and the words trembled at the gate of speech without obtaining utterance.

Isabel, however, was more confident in herself, and less conscious of her own sensations; she saw and grieved at the state of Dacre's mind, and longed to give him comfort and consolation as in days of yore.

Finding, then, that he did not begin upon the subject of his cares and sorrows, she resolved to do so herself; and after a pause, during which she felt agitated, and hesitated she knew not why, she said, "I am glad to speak with you alone, Harry; for I see you are very, very sad, and I would fain persuade you to take comfort."

"Oh, many things make me thus sad, dear Isabel," replied the knight, with a faint smile; "but I will try to do better with time."

"Nay, Harry," she answered; "you cannot conceal the cause of your sadness from me. I have known you from my childhood, too well not to understand it all. You were ever jealous too much of your fame; and now I know, because this false, bad man has insinuated things that never entered your thoughts, you fancy people will suspect you."

"And will they not, Isabel?" asked Dacre. "I should not say, perhaps, _suspect_ me; for suspicion is a more fixed and tangible thing than that which I fear; but will there not be doubts, coming in men's mind against their will, and against their reason? Will they not, from time to time, when they think of Henry Dacre, and this sad history, and these dark scandals--will they not ask themselves, What, if it were really so?"

"Oh! no, no! Harry," replied his fair companion, warmly; "none will think so who know you--none will think so at all, but the base and bad, who are capable of such acts themselves."

"Indeed, Isabel!" said Dacre. "And is such really your belief? You know not how suspicion clings, dear lady. If you stain a silken garment, can you ever make it clear and glossy, as once it was? and the fame of man or woman is of a still finer and frailer texture.

There, one spot, one touch, lasts for ever."

With kind and tender words, and every argument that her own small experience could afford, Isabel Beauchamp tried to rea.s.sure him; and she succeeded at least in one thing--in convincing him so far of her full confidence in his honour, that he was on the eve of putting it to the strongest test. The acknowledgment of his love hung upon his lips, and, if then spoken, might perchance, in her eagerness to prove her conviction of his innocence, have been met with that warm return, which would have brought the best balm to his heart, although the first effect upon her might have been agitation and alarm. But ere he could utter the words on which his fate depended, Mary Markham joined them, and he waited for another opportunity. Dacre returned to his own house at night; but every day he went over to the hall, his mood varying like a changeful morning, sometimes sunny with hope and temporary forgetfulness, sometimes all cloud and gloom, when memory recalled the suspicions that had been pointed at him. Those suspicions, too, were frequently recalled to his mind even by his own acts, for he eagerly strove to discover by whose instrumentality his whole course, on the unfortunate night of poor Catherine Beauchamp's death, had been conveyed to Sir Simeon of Roydon. But by so doing, he only fretted his own spirit, and gained no information; whoever was the spy, he remained concealed.

Three or four days were thus pa.s.sed before he obtained any second opportunity of speaking with Isabel alone; but, on his arrival at the dwelling of Sir Philip Beauchamp, on the morning of the 9th of April, he was told by a servant whom he found in the hall, that the family had gone forth into the park; and, following immediately, he found Isabel sitting under the trees, without companions. She seemed to have been weeping, and it was a pleasant task for Dacre to strive to console her who had so often been his own comforter.

"There are tears in your eyes, dear Isabel," he said, as she rose gracefully to meet him. "What has grieved you?"

"Have you not seen my father?" asked the lady. "Do you not know that our dear Mary is going to leave us? She goes to London to-day, and he goes with her so far."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the knight; "that is very sudden."

"And very sad," answered Isabel; "the hall will be melancholy enough without her now--I cannot but weep, and shall never cease to regret her going."

"Nay, nay; time will bring balm, dear Isabel," answered Dacre. "You have often told me so."

"And have you believed me, Harry?" answered the lady, with a faint and almost reproachful smile; "even last night, you were more sad and grave than ever."

"Ay, but this is a different case," replied Dacre; "one can lose a friend--ay, even by death; one can lose anything more easily than honour and renown."

"But the loss of yours is only in your own fancy, Dacre," she answered. "Who believes this charge, that Simeon of Roydon dares to hint, but not to avow? Whom has it affected? In whom do you see a change? Surely not in my father; surely not in me."

"No, a.s.suredly, Isabel," he said, after thinking for a while; "but as yet I have had no occasion to make the trial. Hearken, and I will put a case. Suppose, dear Isabel, that I were to love; suppose the lady that I loved had heard this tale; suppose that she had loved me well before, and at her knee I were now to crave the blessing of her hand; would not a doubt, would not a hesitation cross her mind? Would she not ask herself--"

"Oh, no!" cried Isabel; but Dacre went on, not suffering her to conclude.

"You put it not fully to your own heart, dear Isabel," he said.

"Suppose you were that lady--suppose that all Harry Dacre's hopes and happiness for life were staked on your reply; suppose that to you, who have so often consoled him in affliction, calmed him in anger, soothed him in anxiety, he were to say, 'Isabel, will you be my comforter through life, the star of my existence, the recompence for all I have suffered?' would not one thought--"