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 class of
sensations--regard for his high character and noble 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, passed 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 circumstances 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 noble 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 God
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, noble 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 reassure 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 passed 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, assuredly, 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--"
Isabel trembled violently, and her cheek turned ashy pale.
"It is enough," said Dacre, with a quivering lip; "I am answered! That
memory could never be banished from your heart. It is enough!"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Isabel; but, as will almost always happen when a
word may make all clear, an interruption came; before she could go on,
good old Sir Philip Beauchamp was seen upon the steps of the house,
waving them to come back, with a loud "Halloo!"
They both turned, and walked towards the hall in silence. Isabel would
fain have spoken, but agitation overpowered her. She wished that
Dacre, by a single word, would give her an opportunity of reply; but
his over-sensitive heart was convinced of her feelings--reading them
all wrong; and he would not force her to speak what he thought must be
painful for her to utter, and for him to hear. Twice she made up her
mind to explain, but twice her heart failed her at the moment of
execution; and it was not till they were within a few steps of the
place where her father stood, that she could say, in a low voice, "You
are mistaken, Harry; indeed you are mistaken!"
He shook his head with a bitter smile, and walked on in silence.