Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Departure for the North—Consternation at the
Castle.
As the way was long, and the day of the tournament not very distant,
Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger resolved to leave Hailes Castle next
morning for the North, that he might save himself the necessity of
forced marches. He accordingly made instant preparations for his
journey; his father gave immediate orders for securing him a cortege as
should not disgrace the name he bore; and his horses, arms, and
appointments of every description were perfectly befitting his family
and rank. When the morning of his departure arrived, he took an
affectionate leave of his father and Assueton, who left the Castle with
their attendants at an early hour, for the purpose of hunting together.
The Lady Isabelle would gladly have made one of the party with her
father and her lover, but, attached as she was to Sir John Assueton,
her affection for her brother was too strong to permit her to leave the
Castle till he should be gone. That he might enjoy her society in
private till the last moment, Hepborne despatched his faithful esquire,
Mr. Mortimer Sang, at the head of his people, to wait for him at a
particular spot, which he indicated, at the distance of about a mile
from the Castle; and he also sent forward the palfrey he meant to ride,
for his noble destrier Beaufront was to be led by a groom during the
whole march.
His fond Isabelle resolved to walk with him to the place where he was
to meet his attendants, and accordingly the brother and sister set out
together arm in arm.
Sir Patrick resolving to probe his sister’s heart, adroitly turned the
conversation on Sir John Assueton, and, with extreme ingenuity, touched
on those agrémens and virtues which his friend evidently possessed, as
well as on a number of weak and faulty points, both in person and
manner, which he chose, for certain purposes, to feign in him, or
greatly to exaggerate. In praising the former, the Lady Isabelle very
much surpassed her brother; for, however highly he might laud his
friend, she always found something yet more powerful and eloquent to
say in his favour; but whenever Sir Patrick ventured to hint at any
thing like a fault or a blemish, the lady was instantly up in arms, and
made as brave a defence for him against her brother as she had done for
him some days before against the wolf. This light skirmishing went on
between them until they reached a knoll covered with tall oaks, whence
they beheld the party, about to take shelter in the appointed grove of
trees, on the meadow by the river’s side, at a considerable distance
below them.
“Isabelle,” said Hepborne, taking her hand tenderly, “thou hast walked
far enough, my love; let us rest here for an instant, and then part.
Our converse hath not been vain. My just praise of Assueton, as well as
the faults I pretended to find in him, were neither of them without an
object. I wished ere I left thee to satisfy myself of the true state of
thy little heart; for I should have never forgiven myself had I
discovered that I had been mistaken, and that I had told what was not
true, when I assured Assueton, as I did last night, that thou lovest
him.”
“Told Sir John Assueton that I love him?” exclaimed the Lady Isabelle,
blushing with mingled surprise and confusion; “how couldst thou tell
him so? and what dost thou know of my sentiments regarding him?
Heavens! what will he think of me?”
“Why, well, passing well, my fair sister,” said Hepborne; “make thyself
easy on that score. He loves thee, believe me, as much as thou lovest
him; so I leave thee to measure the length, breadth, height, and depth
of his attachment by the dimensions of thine own. But as to knowing the
state of thy heart—tut! I could make out much more difficult cases than
it presents; for well I wot its state is apparent enough, even from the
little talk I have had with thee now, if I had never heard or seen
more. But, my dear Isabelle, after my father, thou and he are the two
beings on earth whom I do most love. Ye are both perfect in mine eyes.
I could talk to thee of Assueton’s qualities and perfections for days
together, and of virtues which as yet thou canst not have dreamt of;
but I must leave thee to the delightful task of discovering them for
thyself. All I can now say is, may heaven make ye both happy in each
other—for I must be gone. And so, my love, farewell, and may the
blessed Virgin protect thee.”
He then threw his arms about his sister’s neck, pressed her to his
bosom, and, having kissed her repeatedly with the most tender
affection, tore himself from her, ran down the hill, and, as she
cleared her eyes from the tear-drops that swelled in them, she saw him
disappear in the shade of the clump of trees where his party was
stationed. A good deal of time seemed to be lost ere the whole were
mounted and in motion; but at last she saw them emerging from the
wood-shaw, and winding slowly, in single files, up the river-side. She
sat on the bank straining her eyes after them until they were lost in
the distant intricacies of the surface, and then turned her steps
slowly homewards, ruminating agreeably on her brother’s last words, as
well as on the events of the preceding days, which had given her a new
and more powerful interest in life than she had ever before
experienced.
“Oh, my dear brother,” said she to herself, “thou didst indeed say
truly that I do love him; and if thou sayest as soothly that he doth
love me, then am I blessed indeed.”
It was courtesy alone that induced Sir John Assueton to agree to Sir
Patrick Hepborne’s proposal of going that morning to the woodlands to
hunt the deer. He went with no very good will; nay, when his host
talked of it, he felt more than once inclined, as he had done with his
friend about the tournament, to plead his wounded arm as an excuse for
remaining at home with the Lady Isabelle; and, perhaps, if it had not
been for absolute shame, he might have yielded to the temptation. Hence
he had but little pleasure in the sport that day, although it was
unusually fine; and he was by no means gratified to find himself led on
by the chase to a very unusual distance. But to leave Sir Patrick was
impossible. He was therefore compelled, very much against his
inclination, to ride all day like a lifeless trunk, whilst his spirit
was hovering over the far-off towers of Hailes Castle. The deer was
killed so far from home, that it was later than ordinary before the
party returned.
“I am surprised Isabelle is not already here to receive us,” said Sir
Patrick, as they entered the banquet hall; “I trowed she might have
been impatient for our return ere this. Gabriel,” said he to the old
seneschal, “go, I pr’ythee, to Mary Hay, and let her tell her lady that
we are come home, and that we have brought good appetites with us.”
Gabriel went, and soon returned with Mary Hay herself, who appeared in
great agitation.
“Where is thy lady?” demanded Sir Patrick, with an expression of
considerable anxiety.
“My lady! my good lord,” said the terrified girl; “holy St. Baldrid! is
she not with thee then?”
“No,” said Sir Patrick, with increasing amazement and alarm, “she went
not with us. We left her here with my son, when he rode forth in the
morning.”
“Nay, I knew that,” said the terrified Mary Hay, “but—good angels be
about us—I weened that her pages and palfrey might have gone with thee,
and that she might ha’ been to join thee in the woods, after having
given her brother the convoy.”
“Merciful powers! did she leave the Castle with her brother?” “Good
Heavens! hath she never been seen since morning?” exclaimed Sir Patrick
and Assueton, both in the same breath, and looking eagerly in the faces
of the people around them for something satisfactory; but no one had
seen her since morning. Some of the domestics ran out to question those
who had kept guard; but though she had been seen as she went out with
her brother, neither warder or sentinel had observed her return.
Meantime the whole Castle was searched over from garret to cellar by
Assueton, Sir Patrick, and the servants, all without success.
The consternation and misery of the father and the lover were greater
than language can describe. Broken sentences burst from them at short
intervals, but altogether void of connection. A thousand conjectures
were hazarded, and again abandoned as impossible. Plans of search
without number were proposed, and then given up as hopeless; while all
they said, thought, or did, was without concert, and only calculated to
show their utter distraction. But matters did not long continue thus.
“My horse, my horse!” cried the agonized and frenzied father; and “My
horse, my horse!” responded Assueton, in a state no less wild and
despairing.
Both rushed down to the stable, and the horses which yet remained
saddled from the chase being hurriedly brought out, they struck the
spurs into their sweltering sides, and, almost without exchanging a
word, galloped furiously from the gateway, each, as if by a species of
instinct, taking a different way, and each followed by a handful of his
people, who mounted in reeking haste to attend his master. They scoured
the woodlands, lawns, and alleys, from side to side, and all around;
they beat through the shaws and copses, and hollowed and shouted to the
very cracking of their voices. By and by, to those who listened from
the walls, their circles appeared to become wider, and their shouts
were no longer heard. Forth rushed, one by one, as they could horse
them in haste, or gird themselves for running, grooms, lacqueys,
spearmen, billmen, bowmen, and foresters, until none were left within
the place but the men on guard, the old, the feeble, and some of the
women. Even Mary Hay ran out into the woods, beating her breast,
tearing her hair, screaming like a maniac, and searching wildly among
the bushes, even less rationally than those who had gone before her.
Sir Patrick, as he rode, began, in the midst of his affliction, to
collect his scattered ideas, and, calling to mind what they had told
him of Lady Isabelle having gone to convoy her brother, he immediately
halted from the unprofitable search he was pursuing, and turned his
horse’s head towards that direction which they must have necessarily
taken. He rode on as far as the knoll where the brother and sister had
bid adieu to each other, and there being a cluster of cottages at the
bottom of the hill, he made towards one of them himself, and sent his
attendants to all the others in search of information. From several of
the churls, and from their wives, he learned that his son had been seen
taking an affectionate leave of a lady whom they now supposed to have
been the Lady Isabelle, among the oaks on the knoll, and that he had
afterwards joined his party, waiting for him under the trees by the
river’s side, whilst the lady seemed to turn back, as if to take the
way to the Castle. With this new scent, Sir Patrick made his panting
horse breast the hill, and, assisted by his men, beat the ground in
close traverse, backwards and forwards, from one side to another, with
so great care and minuteness that the smallest object could not have
escaped their observation. They tried all the by-routes that might have
been taken, but all without success; though they spent so much time in
the search that darkness had already begun to descend over the earth
ere they were compelled to desist from it as hopeless.
They returned towards the Castle, still catching at the frail chance,
as they hurried thither, that though they had been unsuccessful, some
one else might have been more fortunate, and that probably the Lady
Isabelle had been already brought back in safety. But unhappily the
guards, who crowded round them at the gate, and to whom both master and
men all at once opened in accents of loud inquiry, had no such
heart-healing tidings to give them. They obtained such intelligence,
however, as had awakened a spark of hope. Sir John Assueton had
returned a short time before Sir Patrick, with the horse he had ridden
so exhausted that the wretched animal had dropped to the ground, and
died instantly after his rider had quitted the saddle. He had called
loudly for fresh horses and a party of spearmen, and had then rushed
into the Castle to arm himself in haste; and a number of those who had
gone to search independently having fortunately by this time come in
one by one, some fifteen or twenty bowmen, spearmen, and billmen had
been hastily got together, and provided with brisk and still unbreathed
horses. Without taking time, however, to give the particulars of what
he had gathered, or to say whither he was bound, Sir John had merely
called out to the guard, as he was mounting, to tell Sir Patrick, if he
should return before him, that he had heard some tidings of the Lady
Isabelle, and that he would bring her safely back, or perish in the
attempt; and after having said so, he had given the word to his men and
scoured off at the head of them in a southern direction.
The miserable father was more than ever perplexed by this information.
From the preparations Sir John had so effectually though hastily made,
it was evident that the scene of the enterprise he went on was distant;
and that it was not without doubt or danger, appeared from the few
words he had let fall. Could Sir Patrick have had any guess whither to
go, he would have instantly armed himself, and such men as he could
have got together, to follow and aid Sir John Assueton; but such a
chase was evidently more wild and hopeless than the fruitless search he
had just returned from; and the pitchy darkness which by this time
prevailed was in itself an insurmountable obstacle to his discovering
the route that Sir John had taken. He was compelled, therefore, most
unwillingly and most sorrowfully, to give up all idea of further
exertion for the present; but he resolved to start in the morning long
ere the first lark had arisen from its nest, and, if he should hear
nothing before then that might change his determination, to ride
towards England. He accordingly gave orders to his esquires to have a
body of armed horsemen ready equipped to accompany him, an hour before
the first streak of red should tinge the eastern welkin.
Old Gabriel Lindsay, his dim eyes filled with tears, and altogether
unable to take comfort to himself, came to make the vain attempt to
administer it to his master, and to try to persuade him to take some
rest. But all the efforts of the venerable seneschal were ineffectual,
and the heartbroken father continued to pace the hall with agitated
steps among his people, despatching them off by turns, and often
running down to the gate, or to the ramparts, whenever his ear caught,
or fancied it caught, a sound that might have indicated Assueton’s
return.