THE SUSPICIONS.
Upon the borders of Hampshire and Sussex, but still within the former
county, lies, as the reader probably knows, a large tract of land but
little cultivated even now, and which, in the days whereof I speak,
was covered either with scattered trees and copses or wild heath,
having various paths and roads winding through it, which led now to a
solitary village, with a patch of cultivated land round about it, now
to a church or chapel in the wild, now travelled on through the hills,
which are high and bare, to Winchester or Basingstoke. Deep sand
occupies a great portion of the ground, through which it is well nigh
impossible to construct a firm road; and the whole country is broken
with wild and rapid undulations, of no great height or depth, but
every variety of form, the resort of all those rare birds, which
afforded so much interest and amusement to gentle White of Selbourne.
Through this rude and uncultivated tract, a little before the close of
day, in the beginning of April 1413, two gentlemen clothed in deep
mourning of the fashion of that day, rode slowly on. Both were very
grave and silent; and, if the complexion of their thoughts was sad and
solemn, the aspect of the scene at that hour was not calculated to
lighten the heart, though it might arouse feelings of admiration. The
sun hung upon the edge of the sky; broad masses of cloud floated over
the wide expanse of azure which stretched out above the wild heath;
and their shadows, as they crossed the slanting rays, swept over the
varied surface below, casting long lines of country into deep blue
shade, while the rest shone in the cool pale evening sunshine of the
yet unconfirmed spring. Each dell and pit, too, at that hour, was
filled with the same sort of purple shadow: the braes and banks looked
wilder and more strongly marked from the position of the sun; the
occasional clumps of fir trees cut sharp and black upon the western
sky; and everything was stern and grand and solemn.
Rising over one slope and descending another, by paths cut imperfectly
through the heath and gorse, the travellers had ridden on for half an
hour without speaking, when at length, at the bottom of a deep valley,
where the sun could no longer be seen, and the shades of evening
seemed already to have fallen, they stopped to let their horses drink
in a large piece of water, sheltered by a thick copse, and gazed upon
the reflection of the blue sky above and the clouds floating over it.
As they moved on again, a large white bird started up from the reeds,
and flew heavily away, with its snowy plumage strangely contrasting
with the dark background of the wood and hill.
"'Tis like a spirit winging its way from earth," said Sir Henry Dacre,
following the bird with his eyes. "Poor Catherine! Would that aught
else had set thee free from the chain that bound thee to me, but
death."
"Luckless girl, indeed!" replied Richard of Woodville; "from her
infancy unfortunate! And yet men thought that the hand of Heaven had
showered upon her its choicest gifts: beauty, wealth, kind friends,
and a noble heart to love her, if she would but have welcomed it. But,
alas! Harry, the crowning gift of all was wanting: a spirit that could
use God's blessings aright."
"It was more the fault of others than her own," said Sir Harry Dacre,
"that I do believe. Her mother made her what she was! 'Tis sad! 'tis
very sad, Richard, that, at the period when we have no power to form
ourselves, each weak fool who approaches us can give us some bad gift
which we never can cast off."
"Like the evil fairies at a child's birth," answered Richard of
Woodville; "and certainly her mother was a bad demon to her; but
still, though I would not speak ill of those who are gone, yet poor
Kate received the gifts willingly enough, destructive as they were.
Would to Heaven it had been otherwise; but others encouraged her in
all that was wrong, as well as her mother. This man, Roydon, was no
good counsellor for a lady's ear."
The brow of Sir Henry Dacre grew dark as night. "He is a scoundrel,"
he cried; "he is a scoundrel; and if ever he gives me the chance of
having him at my lance's point, he or I shall go to that place where
all men's actions are made clear.--Oh! that I knew the truth, Richard!
Oh! that I knew the truth!"
"There is One who knows it," answered Richard of Woodville, "who never
suffers foul deeds to rest in darkness. Trust to Him: and if this
knave does but support his charge, perhaps your lance may be the
avenging instrument of Heaven."
"May it be so," replied the knight; "but I doubt it, Richard. True, he
has not shown himself a coward in the field; and yet I cannot but
think that he is craven at heart. Saw you not how carefully his letter
to Sir Philip was worded? how he insinuated more than he dared say?
and, then, why did he not come?--A sickness, forsooth! The excuse of
an idle schoolboy. He would not face me,--that is the truth. He fears
me, Richard, and will not dare the test of battle."
"Well, that we shall soon see," answered his companion; "your
messenger must be at my house, by this time, with his reply."
"I trust so," said Dacre, thoughtfully; "yet he will take time to
write carefully, believe me. His will be no rash epistle, written in
fiery anger at his cousin's death. No, no; it will be done as if a
scrivener had dictated every word, and in a courtly hand. But whatever
he does, mark me, he will leave the poison behind, and so calculate as
to cast suspicion over me for life."
"But who suspects you, Dacre?" asked Richard of Woodville, with a
smile; "not one honest man on earth. You are too well known, for
doubts to light upon you. Does not Sir Philip, her own uncle, love you
as a son? and can you let the idle words of a knave, like this,
disturb your peace?"
"My peace, Richard!" said Sir Henry Dacre, sadly; "can a high and
honest heart ever feel peace, so long as one doubt, one unrefuted
charge, casts a cloud upon it? I would rather die a thousand deaths
than have men point at me, and say, 'he was suspected of a foul crime
against an innocent lady;' and, besides, even those that I love best,
those who hold me dearest, may often ask themselves, 'could it be
true?'"
"Not a whit!" replied Woodville: "no one will ever ask such a thing.
Like a wounded man, you think that every one will touch the spot, and
feel the pain in fancy. Cast off such imaginations, Dacre; secure in
your own honour, laugh suspicion to scorn, and trust to the noble and
the true to do justice to those who are like themselves."
"Would I could do so, Richard," said the knight; "and it would be
easy, too, did we not know that the wide world is so full of arrant
knaves, and that amongst the knaves there are such hypocrites, that
honesty has no touchstone whereby true metal can be really known from
false; and men rightly doubt the value of each coin they take, so
cunning are the counterfeits. Hypocrisy is a greater curse to mankind
than wickedness; for it makes all virtue doubted, and fills the bosoms
of the good with suspicion, from a knowledge of the feigning of the
bad. Besides, amongst those who hold a middle course, neither plunging
deep in the stream of vice and wrong, nor staying firmly on the shore
of honour, how gladly every one attributes acts to others that may
outdo the darkness of his own! No, no; suspicion never yet lighted on
a name that ever was wholly pure again. All I ask is, to give me that
man before me, let me cram the falsehood down his throat, at the
sword's point, and wring the truth from his dying lips, or let me die
myself."
"Well, we shall see what he replies," answered Richard of Woodville,
finding it useless to argue farther with him; "and if, as you suspect,
he evades the question, what think you then to do?"
"To go with you to Burgundy," answered Dacre; "for I shall be, then,
one fitted well to take a part in civil broils--a right serviceable
man, where danger is rifest, ever ready to lead the way in peril,
having nor wife, nor relative, nor friend, nor hope, nor home, to make
him feel the stroke that takes his life, more than the scratch of a
sharp thorn that tears him as he passes through the wood."
"But you will surely first return," said Woodville, "to say farewell
to my good uncle, and sweet Isabel?"
"I do not know," replied Dacre. "Dear Isabel, she tried to cheer me;
and I know would not for worlds suffer doubts of me to rest for an
hour in her heart; and yet they will come and go, Richard, whether she
will or not. Each time I take her hand she'll think of Catherine; and
though she'll answer boldly, 'it is false,' as often as suspicions
rise, yet they will be remembered, and rest for ever as a shadow over
our friendship."
"You do her wrong, Harry," answered his companion. "Your mind is
sickly; and, as a man in a sore disease, you see all things through
one pale mist. Isabel may often think of her who is no more, may
grieve for her, and regret that she did not make life happier to
herself and others, and that she met so early and so sad a death; but
she will ever call her back to mind as one who wronged you, not as one
wronged by you: and you may be happy yet."
He spoke gravely, and Sir Henry Dacre turned and gazed at him, as if
for explanation of his words; but Richard said no more; and, riding on
in silence, they soon after came to a point where the road began to
rise, winding in slowly between two wooded hills, with a small
streamlet flowing on by its side. The sun was sinking below the
horizon, as they passed through a village, with the bright
blacksmith's forge jutting out beyond the other buildings; and when at
length they drew the rein before the gate of a tall house bosomed in
trees, it was well nigh dark.
Several servants came instantly into the court; and, giving their
horses to be taken to the stable, the two gentlemen entered the outer
hall, and thence proceeded onwards to a room beyond, where they were
immediately joined by a stout man, habited as a courier, who placed a
letter in the hand of Sir Harry Dacre, without speaking.
"So thou art back, Martin," said the knight, while Richard of
Woodville called for lights.
"Yes, noble sir," answered the servant; "but I have had to ride hard,
for he kept me a long time; but that I don't wonder at."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Sir Henry; "why should he keep you long?"
"Because he wrote a long letter, sir," replied the man; "he might have
waited till doomsday, if he had been in my place, and I in his."
"Did he look ill?" inquired the knight.
"Not he, sir," answered the servant; "he was out gosshawking after
larks when I arrived."
"The liar!" muttered Sir Henry Dacre; but at the same moment lights
were brought in, and making the messenger a sign to retire, the knight
opened the letter and read. Richard of Woodville stood by and watched
him, while his fine features, as he gazed intently upon the paper,
assumed first a look of scorn, and then of anger; and at length he
exclaimed, "As I thought, Richard!--as I thought! On my life, I must
be an astrologer, and not know it, to have read this man's conduct to
the letter, beforehand. Mark what he says: 'Sir Simeon of Roydon
brings no charge against Sir Henry Dacre, and never has brought any;
but holds him as good knight and true. He has, therefore, no cause of
quarrel with the said knight, but, far from it, wishes him all
prosperity; the which Sir Henry would have clearly seen, if he had
read carefully the letter which Sir Simeon wrote to the good knight of
Dunbury, and had not looked at it rashly. Therein Sir Simeon thought
to do Sir Henry Dacre an act of love and courtesy, by pointing out--he
himself nought doubting--what might breed doubts in the hearts of
other men, regarding the manner of the death of the Lady Catherine
Beauchamp, in order that the good knight might make such inquiries as
would remove all suspicion. For this cause he marked what he had only
learned by hear-say, that Sir Henry Dacre had, as unhappily often
happened, a fierce quarrel with the Lady Catherine, about a gentleman,
it would seem, calling himself Hal of Hadnock----' Curses upon him!"
cried Dacre, breaking off.
"Nay, nay, you do him wrong," answered Richard of Woodville; "he
sought but to serve you, as I will tell you anon, Harry. But read on.
What says he more?"
"'That Sir Harry quitted the hall in bitter anger,'" continued
Dacre, reading, "'and swearing he should go mad with the lady's
conduct----' Did I say so?"
Woodville nodded his head, and his friend proceeded: "'That the said
Sir Henry, though his house is distant but seven miles, did not reach
his own door till the hour of nine, and that the lady came by her
death between seven and eight, or thereabout; that Sir Henry's hand
was torn when he reached his house; and that there was a stain of
blood upon the lady's throat; that there were marks of horses' feet on
the opposite side of the river, and across the moor towards Sir
Henry's dwelling; and that he himself was seen of many persons
wandering about near Abbot's Ann and Dunbury, till dark that night;
all of which points Sir Simeon of Roydon doubted not, in any way,
could be easily explained by Sir Henry Dacre, if true--but which,
perchance, were untrue he, Sir Simeon, having heard them merely from
vague report and common fame!' Some true, some false," cried Dacre. "I
did tear my hand, opening the gate by Clatford mill. I did wander
about, with a heart on fire, and a brain all whirling, at being made
wretched by another's fault; but I was far from the village, far from
Abbey and Hall, before the sun went down; for I saw him set from
Weyhill.--Ah! poisonous snake! He stings and glides away from the heel
that would crush him. Hear how he ends: 'For his own part, Sir Simeon
of Roydon is right well convinced that Sir Henry Dacre is pure and
free of all share in the lady's death; otherwise that knight might be
full sure he would be the first to call him to the lists, in vengeance
of his cousin's death.' The scoundrel coward! But how is this,
Richard? He must have spies in our houses--at our hearths. How else
did he gain such tidings? Who told him of the quarrel between that
hapless girl and me? He was gone long before, I think?"
"Ay, but his servants stayed," replied Woodville; "and there was one
in the hall when you returned; that black-looking, silent man. Yet he
must have some other means of information, too; else how did he know
your hand was torn?"
"I cannot say," answered Dacre, thoughtfully. "By heaven! he will
plant suspicion in my heart, too, and make me doubt the long-tried,
faithful fellows I have with me." And he cast himself gloomily on a
seat, and pondered in silence.
The moment after, there was a sound of horses' feet passing along
before the house, and Richard of Woodville turned and listened,
saying, "Here is some new messenger. Were it any of my own people,
they would come to the other gate."
After some talking in the hall without, an attendant opened the door,
and informed his young master that there was a person without who
desired to see him. "He comes from Westminster," added the man, "and
will give neither message nor letters to any but yourself, sir."
"Let him come in!" answered Richard of Woodville; and a personage was
called forward, habited somewhat differently from any of those whom we
have already had occasion to describe. He was dressed in what is
called a tabard; but it must not be supposed, from that circumstance,
that he bore the office of either herald or pursuivant, for many other
classes retained that part of the ancient dress, and it was officially
worn by the squires, and many of the inferior attendants of kings and
sovereign princes, sometimes over armour, sometimes without. In
particular cases, the tabard was embroidered either with the arms of
the lord whom the bearer served, or with his own, as a sort of coat of
arms; but was frequently, especially with persons of somewhat low
degree, perfectly unornamented, and formed of a fine cloth of a
uniform colour. Such was the case with the man who now appeared--his
loose, short gown, with wide sleeves, being of a bright pink hue. The
linen collar of his shirt fell over it; and the part of his dress left
exposed below the knee, showed nothing but the riding boots of
untanned leather, drawn up to their full extent. In person, he was a
short, thin young man, with a shrewd and merry countenance. His hair
was cut short round the whole head, but left thick, notwithstanding,
so as to resemble a fur cap, and his long arms reached his knees.
Without uttering a word, he advanced towards Richard of Woodville, who
had taken a step forward to receive him, and drawing a packet from the
bosom of his tabard, he placed it in the gentleman's hand.
"From Hal of Hadnock, I suspect?" said Woodville, looking at him
closely.
"Nay, I know not," replied the messenger; "from Hal, certainly; yet no
more Hal of Hadnock, than of Monmouth, or Westminster, or any other
town of England or Wales. Read, and you will see."
Richard of Woodville tore open the outer cover, and took forth several
broad letters, tied and sealed. The first he opened, and drawing near
the light, perused its contents attentively.
"Hal of Hadnock," so it ran, "to Richard of Woodville, greeting. Good
service requires good service, and honour, honour. Thus you shall
find, my comrade of the way, that I have not forgotten you, though
matters of much moment and some grief have delayed a promise, not put
it out of mind. You, too, have doubtless had much cause for thought
and sorrow, and may, perchance, have yet affairs to keep you in the
realms of England; which being the case, I do not require that you
should lay aside things of weight, to bear the enclosed to the noble
Duke of Burgundy, or his son, and to the faithful servant of this
crown, Sir Philip Morgan, now at the court of Burgundy; but the letter
addressed to Sir John Grey, at Ghent, is of some importance to
himself, and should find his hands as speedily as may be. If,
therefore, by any chance, you be minded to stay in England more than
fourteen days from the receipt of these, return that packet by the
bearer, one Edward Dyram. But, if you be ready to cross the seas ere
then, keep the messenger with you in your company, as I believe him to
be faithful and true, and skilled in many things; and he knoweth my
mind towards you, which is good. Neither be offended at speech or jest
of his, for he hath a licence not easily bridled; but so long as he
useth his tongue for his own conceit, so long will he use his
knowledge for a friend or master. I give him to you; treat him well
till you return him to me again; and if there be aught else that can
serve you or do you grace, seek me at Westminster, where you will find
a friend in Henry."
Richard of Woodville pondered, but testified no surprise; and, after a
moment's thought, put the letter in the hand of Sir Henry Dacre, who
read it through, with more apparent wonder than his friend had
expressed. "And who is this?" he asked, when he had done. "He signs
himself, Henry. Can it be the Prince?"
"The Prince that was, the King that is," replied Woodville, giving him
a sign to say no more before the messenger. "And so, my friend, you
are to be my companion over sea?" he added, turning to the latter.
"That is as you will, not as I will," replied the man; "if you are
fool enough to quit England in a fortnight, when you can stay a month,
I am to go with you; if you are wise enough to stay, I am wise enough
to go alone."
"Ten days, I hope, at farthest, shall see my foot on other shores,"
answered Woodville; "and pray, Master Edward Dyram, what may be your
capacity, quality, or degree? for 'tis fit that I should know who it
is goes with me."
"Ned Dyram, fair sir, by your leave," replied the messenger; "'tis so
long since I lost the last half of my first name, that I know it not
when I meet it; and I should as much expect my mother's ass to answer
me, if I called him Edward, as I should answer to it myself. Then, as
to my capacity, it is large enough to hold any man's secrets without
spilling them by the way, or to contain the knowledge of a knight, a
baron, and squire, besides a clerk's and my own, without running over.
My chief quality is to tell truth when I like it, and other men do
not; and my degree has never been taken yet, though I lived long
enough with a doctor of Oxford to have caught that sickness, had it
been infectious."
"I fear me, Ned Dyram," said Richard of Woodville, smiling, "I shall
lose much time with you, in getting crooked answers to plain
questions; but if you have puzzled your own brains with logic, puzzle
not mine."
"Well, well, sir," answered the other, "I will be brief, for I am
hungry, and you are tired. I am the son of a Franklin, who broke his
heart to make me a clerk. I had, however, no gift for singing, and
turned my wits to other things. I can do what men can generally do,
and sometimes better than they can. I have broken a man's head one
day, and healed it the next; for I have handled a quarter-staff and
served a leech. I can cast nativities, and draw a horoscope; I can
make a horse-shoe, and sharpen a sword; I can write court hand, and
speak more tongues than my own; I can cook my own dinner, when need
be, and bake or brew, if the sutler or the tapster should fail me."
"A goodly list of qualities, indeed," said Richard of Woodville; "and
though my household is not the most princely, we will find you an
office, Ned Dyram, which you must exercise with discretion; and now,
as you are hungry, get you gone to my people, who will stop that evil.
We have supped."
The messenger withdrew; and Sir Henry Dacre returned the letter, which
he still held in his hand, to Woodville, saying, "So this was the
Prince? the more cruel in him to sport with the peace of his father's
subjects."
"Not so, Dacre," replied his friend. "I told you I could explain his
conduct; and it is but justice to him to do so; for he intended to be
kind, not cruel."
Dacre shook his head gloomily.
"Well, you shall hear," continued Woodville. "When I first brought him
to my uncle's gate, I knew not who he was; but he had scarcely entered
the hall, when I remembered him. I kept my own counsel, however, and
said nothing; but when he sought his room, I went with him as you saw,
and there for a whole hour we spoke of those we had left below. I told
him nothing, Harry; for his quick eye had gleaned the truth wherever
it turned; and I had only to set him right on some things regarding
the past. He knew you by name, and took interest in your fate as well
as mine. I would fain tell you all; but in the mood in which you are,
I fear that I may pain you."
"Speak, Dick, speak," answered the knight; "have we not been as
brothers since our boyhood, that you may not give me all your thoughts
freely? Say all you have to say. Keep nought behind, if you love me;
for I have grown as suspicious as the rest, and shall doubt if I see
you hesitate."
"Well, at all risks," said Richard of Woodville, "it is better to give
you some pain, perhaps, than to leave you with your present thoughts.
We talked, then, first of myself and Mary Markham, and then of you and
Catherine. He saw you loved her not."
"'Twas her own fault," cried Dacre: "she crushed out love that might
once have been deep and true."
"I told him so," replied Woodville; "and he asked, why, as you both
clearly wished the bond that bound you to each other loosed, you did
not apply to the Church and the law to break it? I said, what perhaps
had better not been said, but yet what I believed, that, if you
proposed it, she would not consent, for that she loved to keep you as
a captive, if not by love's chains, by any other. He fancied, Harry,
that, if that incomplete union were dissolved, you might be happy with
another--ay, with Isabel."
"Ha!" exclaimed Dacre; "ha! Have I been so careless of my looks that a
mere stranger should--" and he bent down his brow upon his hands, and
remained for a moment silent. Then looking up, he added, "Well,
Richard, I have been a fool; but was it possible to stand between a
desert and a paradise, and not regret that I could never pass the
boundary; to look into a scene of joy and peace, and not long to rest
the weary heart, and cool the aching brow in the calm groves, and
pleasant glades before me? Who would compare those two beings, and not
choose between them, in spite of fate? But what said he more?"
"He thought you might be happy," answered Woodville, "and that the
only barrier was one that he might prompt Catherine to remove herself.
For that object he humoured her caprice, and played with her light
vanity. He told me that he would; and I saw that he did so; for his
was no heart to be suddenly made captive by one such as Catherine
Beauchamp. Besides, it was clear, his words, half sweet, half sour,
were all aimed at that end; for ever and anon, when his tone was full
of courteous gallantry, some sharp jest would break through, as if he
could not keep down the somewhat scornful thoughts with which her idle
vanity moved him."
"Then I did him wrong," answered Dacre; "for had he succeeded, and led
her to propose of her own will that our betrothing should be annulled,
no boon on all the earth could have been equal to that blessing. It
has turned out sadly; yet I will not blame him; for who can tell when
he draws a bowstring in the dark where the shaft may fall? But say,
Richard, was he aware you knew his station?"
"I never told him," replied his friend; "but I think that he divined.
You see, in his letter, that he gives no explanation. But listen,
Harry; will it not be better--now that we have spoken freely on this
theme--will it not be better, I say, for you to return home, let the
first memory of these dark days pass away, and seek for happiness with
one who may well make up for all that you have suffered in the past."
"What!" cried Dacre, "with this stain upon my name? Oh, no! that dream
of joy is gone. No, no, my only course is to forget that there is such
a thing as love on earth, or to think with your friend Chaucer's lay,
that--
'--Love ne is in yonge folke but rage,
And is in olde folke a grete dotage,
Who most it usith, he most shal enpaire
For thereof cometh disese and hevinesse
So sorrow and care, and many a grete sicknesse,
Despite, debate, and angre, and envie,
Depraving shame, untrust, and jelousie,
Pride, mischefe, povertie, and wodeness.'"
"'Tis the song of the cuckoo," Harry replied Woodville; "but this sad
humour, built upon a baseless dream, will pass away when you find that
the suspicions which you now fancy in every one's heart, live but in
your own imagination; and then you will answer with the nightingale--
'That evirmore Love his servauntes amendeth,
And from all evil tachis them defendeth;'
but Time must do his own work; and till then, argument is of no avail.
Yet I would fain not have you lose bright days with me in foreign
lands. Happy were I if I could stay like you in hope, and lead the
pleasant summer life, beneath the lightsome looks of her whom I love
best. Think of it, Harry, think of it; and do not rashly judge that
you see clear till you have wiped the dust out of your eyes."
Dacre shook his head, and answered, "I will to rest, Richard, such as
I can find; for now that I have got this craven's reply, I have no
further business here till I join you again upon our pilgrimage. I
will away to-morrow, to prepare; but we shall meet before I go. I know
my way."