TOO LATE
My imagination, such as it was, completely got the better of what
reasoning faculty I possessed as Copeland concluded, and, having
accompanied him to Westminster with a brain on fire, I never slept
that night. I persuaded myself, in the absence of all evidence, that
I was the victim of a monstrous piece of injustice; I walked about my
chamber like an enraged lion pacing its cage, and I grew feverish with
impatience for the break of day. Early next morning, while the palace
was still hushed in repose, I was on horseback, and on the way to my
grandsire's homestead.
As I rode along I strove to collect my thoughts and to prepare myself
for the anticipated interview with those whose faces I had of late so
often and so earnestly longed to behold. But my efforts to recover
calmness were in vain. Within twelve short hours my whole ideas had
undergone a change. Copeland's Northern voice still rang in my ears;
his tragic story occupied my mind; my imagination ever and anon
conjured up the probability of its being a matter in which I had both
part and lot, and rapidly converted probability into certainty; and
all sentiments of tenderness for home and kindred gave way before
my intense desire to penetrate the mystery which I fancied was now
illumined by a ray of light.
"Ere sunset," I exclaimed to myself in a tone of exultation, "I shall
learn all that concerns me, or know the reason why."
A long journey, as I must have felt, lay before me. But no
consideration of the kind influenced me even so far as to make me spare
the good steed I bestrode. On I spurred, as if the Furies had been
behind, and Paradise before. But, fast as went my steed, faster still
flew my thoughts, and faster than either rushed the warm blood through
my veins. I scarce noted anything by the way; and the herdsman driving
out his cattle, the waggoner with his team of oxen, the charcoal-burner
with his cart, the chapman with his pack-horses, the pilgrim leaning
on his staff, and carrying the palm branch to deposit on the altar of
his church, made way for me, and stared in silent amaze as I passed,
probably fancying me one of those spectre huntsmen of whom legends tell.
As I sped on my way, and entered the great forest of Windsor, a
hare crossed my path. Of evil omen such a circumstance is generally
regarded, and at another time I might have felt some slight alarm. Now,
however, one idea possessed my whole heart and mind; I was in a mood
to laugh at omens; and, spurring on and on with hot speed, rousing
the deer and the wild cattle, I pursued my way, indifferent to the
belling of deer and the bellowing of cattle. At length as the day was
speeding on towards noon, I reined up my jaded and exhausted horse as I
approached the home of my childhood.
But now, for the first time, my heart misgave me. No longer did the
homestead seem to present to my eye the same cheerful aspect as of
old--all was silent and melancholy. An instinctive feeling that
something was wrong flashed through me, and filled me with sudden
fear. I sprang from my steed and rushed to the door, shouting loudly,
and, as I did so, Thomelin of Winchester appeared with a face which
confirmed all my fears.
"Alas!" said he, shaking his head, "you have come too late."
I had already guessed all, and was at no loss to interpret his words.
The Great Destroyer had visited the homestead, as he was ere long
to visit almost every house in the kingdom, and demanded his prey,
and both the grey-haired warrior and the melancholy widow had fallen
victims to his rapacity.
"What mean you, Thomelin?" asked I wildly, for I scarce knew what I
said. "Can it be that my grandsire and my mother are no more?"
"Both," replied Thomelin solemnly. "Both have gone to their long home.
May God have mercy on their souls!"
I said "Amen" and crossed myself devoutly as Thomelin spoke; but even
at that moment, which was sad and bitter, the idea uppermost in my
thoughts was that which for hours had been presenting itself in such a
variety of forms.
"And the secret of my birth, good Thomelin," said I, taking his hand,
"know you anything certain as to that?"
"Nothing certain, as I live," answered he earnestly. "Only of this I
am, and have ever been, well assured, that Adam of Greenmead was not
your grandsire, nor was your mother kinswoman of mine."
"And who, then, was my mother?" I demanded.
"Nay, that is more than I could tell, if both our lives depended on my
so doing," he replied. "Whatever the secret, it has perished with those
who kept it so faithfully."
I uttered a groan, and well-nigh sank under my mortification.
"In truth, Thomelin," murmured I, "you were right in saying that I had
come too late. But God's will be done!"