THOSE WHO WERE LEFT BEHIND.
The morning after the departure of Richard of Woodville dawned clear
and bright upon the city of Ghent; and the hour of seven found a small
party assembled in a neat wooden house, not many yards within the
Brabant gate, at the cheerful meal of breakfast. With dagger in hand
and hearty good will, Nicholas Brune was hewing away at a huge capon,
which, with a pickled boar's head, formed the staple of the meal,
helping his good buxom dame and Ella Brune to what he considered
choice pieces, and praising the fare with more exuberance than
modesty, considering that he was the lord of the feast.
Madame Brune, as we should call her in the present day, but known in
Ghent by a more homely appellation, which may be translated "Wife
Brune," was a native of the good city; and, by his marriage with her,
Nicholas had not only obtained a considerable sum of money, but also
various advantages, which placed him nearly, if not altogether, on a
footing with the born citizens;--so that, for his fair better half, he
had great respect and devotion, as in duty bound. For Ella his
reverence had been greatly increased, by finding that she was endowed
with a quality very engaging in his opinion--namely, wealth; for the
sum which she possessed, though but a trifle in our eyes, was in those
days no inconsiderable fortune, as I have already taken the liberty of
hinting.
I must not, however, do the worthy goldsmith injustice, and suffer the
reader to believe that, had Ella appeared poor and friendless, as he
had last seen her, Nicholas Brune would have shown her aught but
kindness; for he was a good-hearted and right-minded man; but it is
not attributing too much to the influence of the precious metals in
which he worked, to admit that, certainly, he always took them into
account in computing the degree of respect which he was bound to pay
to others. He would not have done any dishonest or evil act to obtain
a whole Peruvian mine, if such a thing had been within the sphere of
his imagination; but still, the possession of such a mine would have
greatly enhanced, in the eyes of Nicholas Brune, the qualities of any
one who might chance to be its proprietor. The only thing, indeed,
which puzzled him in the present instance was, how his old uncle could
assume the garb of a wandering, and not generally respected race, when
he had by him a sum which set him above all chance of want. At first
he fancied that the old man's love of music--which was to him, who did
not know one note from another, a separate marvel--might have been the
motive: the ruling passion strong in death. But then he thought that
good old Murdock might have made sweet melody just as well in his own
house, as in wandering from court to court, and fair to fair; but
immediately after, remembering the old man's peculiar religious
notions, with which he was well acquainted, he concluded that zeal, in
which he could fully sympathize, must have been the cause of conduct
that seemed so strange. This was an inducement he could understand;
for, though on no other points was he of an enthusiastic and vehement
character, yet he was so in matters of faith; and if he could have
made up his mind to any sort of death, it would have been that of a
martyr; but, to say truth, he could not bring himself to prefer any
way of leaving the world, and thought one as disagreeable as another.
Thus he arrived at the conclusion, that his uncle was quite right in
using any means to conceal both his wealth and his religion.
However, as I have said, he viewed Ella with a very placable
countenance,--invited her to eat and drink; and, as his mind reverted
to what she had said, in regard to paying for her food and lodging, he
treated it with a mixture of jest and argument, which showed her that
he would receive something, though not too much.
"Why, my fair cousin," he said, when she recurred to the subject, "in
this good town of Ghent, all is at so base a price that men live for
nothing, and are expected to sell their goods for nothing, I can tell
you. Now, look at that capon; a fatter one never carried its long legs
about a stack of corn, and yet it cost but six liards. You would pay a
sterling, or may be two, for such a one in London; and here you might
get a priest as fat to sing a mass for the same money. God help the
mummers!"
Ella, however, replied, that she would settle her share with his dame
for so long as she stayed, and was proceeding to let her good-humoured
cousin into some of her views and intentions, foreseeing that she
might need his countenance and assistance, when the outer door opened,
and, after a knock at that of the room in which they sat, Ned Dyram
entered, to inquire after his fair companion of the way. Ella knew not
whether to be pleased or sorry to see him; but surprised she certainly
was; for she had thought he was far away from Ghent with his lord. The
cause of these contrary emotions was simply, that she felt little
pleasure in the man's society, and less in the love that he professed
towards her, and yet, having made up her mind to take advantage of the
passion he experienced or affected, to work out her own purposes, she
saw that his remaining in Ghent might greatly facilitate her views.
But the game she had to play was a delicate one, for she had resolved,
for no object whatsoever, to give encouragement to his suit; but
rather, to leave him to divine her wishes, and promote them if he
would, than ask aught at his hands.
Though carried on by that eager and enthusiastic spirit which lingers
longer in the breast of woman than in that of man: from which, indeed,
everything in life tends to expel it--his own wearing passions, his
habits of indulgence, the hard lessons of experience, and the checks
of repeated disappointment--yet she felt somewhat alarmed at the new
course before her. Perhaps she was not quite sure, though the end
ever in view was high and noble, self-devoted, and generous, that the
means were right. To have followed Richard of Woodville through the
world--to have watched over him as a guardian spirit--to have
sacrificed for his sake, and for his happiness, all, anything, peace,
security, comfort, and even her own fame--I do not say her own
honour--she would not have scrupled; but she might ask herself at that
moment, whether it was right and just to sport with the love of
another--to use it for her purpose--even to suffer it, when she knew
that it could never be returned. And yet woman's eye is very keen; and
that selfishness, which frequently bears such a large share in man's
love, was so apparent to her view in all Dyram's actions, that she
could not but feel less compunction for suffering him to pamper
himself with hopes, than if he had been of a nobler and a higher
nature.
Whatever were the ideas that crossed her mind, and kept her silent for
a moment, they rapidly passed away; and when her cousin, after gazing
at the intruder for an instant, asked who he was and what he wanted,
she answered for him, in a gay tone, affecting the coquettish airs
then very common in a higher class, "Oh! he is a servant of mine,
Nicholas--vowed to the tip of my finger. I do not intend ever to have
him; but if the poor creature is resolved to sigh at my feet, I must
e'en let him. Pray you, give him welcome. What news, servant? How is
it that you have not followed your lord?"
"Because," replied Ned Dyram, "I loved best to stay with my lady."
"Nay," answered Ella Brune, "call me not _your_ lady. You are my
servant, but I am yours not at all, either as lady or servant. You
have not yet merited such grace."
In this light and jesting tone she continued to treat him; and though
perhaps such conduct might have repelled a more sensitive and delicate
lover, with Ned Dyram it but added fuel to the fire. Each day he came
to visit--each day returned with stronger passion in his heart. Jest,
indeed, which was far from natural to her character or to her feelings
at the time, Ella could not always keep up: though great and stern
resolution is often the source of a certain bitter mirth at minor
things. But in every graver moment she spoke to Dyram of Richard of
Woodville and of Mary Markham--for as yet she knew her by no other
name. She did so studiously, and yet so calmly and easily, that not
the slightest suspicion of the real feelings in her heart ever crossed
the mind of her hearer. Of Mary, she told him far more than he had
hitherto gathered from his companions in Woodville's train, and dwelt
long upon her beauty, her gentleness, her kindness. Following closely
her object, she even found means to hint, one day, a regret that she
had not been permitted to follow the young Englishman on his
expedition.
"What would I have given," she said, "to have had your chance of going
with him; and yet you chose to remain behind!"
"Indeed, fair Ella!" he exclaimed; "what made you so anxious to go?"
"Nay," answered the girl, with a mysterious look, "do you expect me to
tell you my secrets, bold man? I would give a chain of gold, however,
to be able to follow your master about the world for just twelve
months, if it could be done without risking my own fair fame. Oh! for
one of those fairy girdles that made the wearer invisible!"
"Methinks you love him, Mistress Ella," replied Ned Dyram, more from
pique than suspicion.
But Ella answered, boldly and at once, though he had touched the wound
somewhat roughly.
"Yes, I do love him well!" she answered; "and I have cause, servant of
mine. But it is not for that. I have a vow; I have a purpose; and
though they must be executed, I know not well how to do so. I ought
not to have left him, even now."
"I dare say he would have taken you, if you had asked him!" replied
the man.
"And what would men have said?" demanded Ella. "What would you have
thought yourself--what might your young lord have thought--though he
is not so foolish as yourself? Most likely you would all have done me
wrong in your fancies. No, no!--if I go, it must be secretly. But
there, get you gone; I will tell you no more."
"Nay, tell on, sweet Ella!" exclaimed Ned Dyram; "and perhaps I may
aid you."
"Get you gone, I say!" replied Ella Brune. "I will tell you no more,
at least for the present. You help me!--Why, were I to trust to you
for help in such a matter as this, should I not put myself entirely in
your power?"
"But I would never misuse it, Ella," answered Ned Dyram.
"No, no!" she exclaimed; "I will never put myself in any man's power,
unless I suffer him to put a ring upon my finger; and then, of course,
I am as much his slave as if he had a ring round my neck. There, leave
me! leave me! You may come again to-morrow, and see if I am in a
better mood. I feel cross to-day."
Ned Dyram retired; but he was destined to return before the day was
over, and to bring her tidings, which, however unpleasant in
themselves, rendered his coming welcome. As he took his way back
towards the inn, just at the corner of the Vendredi market-place, he
met a party of travellers, and heard the English tongue; but he took
little heed, for his thoughts were full of Ella Brune; and he had
passed half across the square, when one of the horsemen rode after
him, and said his lord desired to speak with him. Ned Dyram looked up,
and at once remembered the man's face. For reasons of his own,
however, he suffered not the slightest trace of recognition to appear
on his own countenance. As the horseman spoke in English, he replied
in the same tongue, asking who was his master, and what he wanted?
"He is an English knight," replied the servant; "and what he wants he
will tell you himself."
"But I am not fond of trusting myself in English knights' hands,"
answered Ned Dyram; "they sometimes use one badly: so tell me his
name, or I do not go."
"His name is Sir Simeon of Roydon," replied the man: "a very good
name, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes! I will go to him," replied Ned Dyram. "He used to be about
the Court, when I was a greater man than I am now;" and he walked
straight up to the spot where Sir Simeon of Roydon had halted his
horse, and lowly doffed his bonnet as he approached.
"My knave tells me," said the knight, "that you are a servant of the
King's. Is it so?"
"It was so once, sir," replied Ned Dyram; and then added, looking
round to the servant who had followed him, "So, it was he who told
you: I do not remember him!"
"Perhaps not," answered the knight; "but you came up with him once,
when he was following a young woman in whom I take some interest. Do
you know where she is now?"
"It may be so," replied Ned Dyram; "but I talk not of such things in
the street, good sir."
Simeon of Roydon paused and mused, gazing in the man's face the while.
"Whom do you serve now?" he demanded, at length.
"Why, I am employed by no one, at present," said Ned Dyram; not
exactly telling a falsehood, but implying one.
"Well, then, come to me to-night, some time after sunset," rejoined
Sir Simeon, "and we will speak more. You know the convent of the
Dominicans; I am to lodge there, for the prior is my cousin. Ask for
Sir Simeon of Roydon, or the English knight, and the porter will show
you my lodging."
"At the Dominicans!" cried Ned Dyram; "why, you are not going thither
now--at least, that is not the way."
"Is it not?" exclaimed the knight. "Why this fellow agreed to guide
me;" and he pointed to a man in the dress of a peasant, who
accompanied them.
"Then he is guiding you wrong," replied Ned Dyram. "Go straight up
that street, follow the course of the river to the left, and, when you
have passed the second bridge, turn up to the right, cross the Lys,
and you will see the Dominicans right before you. He was taking you to
the Carmelites."
"Well, don't fail to come," rejoined Sir Simeon of Roydon; and he then
rode on, pouring no very measured abuse upon the head of his guide.
The moment he was gone, Dyram hurried back to Ella Brune; and a long
and eager conversation ensued between them, of a very different tone
and character from any which had taken place before. Ella was obliged
to trust and to confide in him, to tell her reasons for abhorring and
shrinking from the sight of one whom her evil fortune seemed
continually to bring across her path, and to consult with him on the
means to be employed for the purpose of concealing her presence in
Ghent from Roydon's eyes, and of discovering what chance had brought
him to the same city so soon after herself.
Nothing, perhaps, could have given Dyram more satisfaction than this
result. The new relations which it established between Ella and
himself--the opportunities which it promised of serving, assisting
her, and laying her under obligations--the constant excuse which it
afforded for seeing her, and consulting with her on subjects of deep
interest to herself--were all points which afforded him much
gratification. But that was not all: he fancied that he saw the means
of obtaining a power over her--a command as well as an influence.
Vague schemes presented themselves to his mind of entangling her in a
chain that she could not break--of binding her to himself by ties that
she could not shake off--and of using the haughty and vicious knight,
whose character he easily estimated, from the information now given
him by Ella, as a tool for the accomplishment of his own purposes. I
have said that these schemes were vague; and perhaps they might never
have taken any more definite a form, had not other events occurred
which led him to carry them out almost against his own will. Man, in
the midst of circumstances, is like one in a Daedalian labyrinth, where
a thousand paths are ready to confound him, a thousand turnings to
lead him to the same end, and that end disappointment; while but one,
of all the many ways, can reach the issue of success.
That night, soon after sunset, Dyram stood before the gate of the
Dominican monastery, and, ringing the bell, asked the porter for the
lodging of Sir Simeon of Roydon. It was evident to him that orders had
been given for his admission, for, without any inquiry, he was
immediately shown to a small chamber, where he found the knight alone.
A curious contest of the wits then ensued, for the knight was shrewd,
and had determined, if it were within the scope of possibility, to
gain from Ned Dyram all the information he could afford; and Dyram, on
the contrary, had resolved to give none but that which suited his
purpose. Both were keen and cunning men; neither very scrupulous; each
selfish in a high degree, though in a somewhat different line; and
both eager and fiery in pursuit of their objects.
The first question of the knight to Ned Dyram was, what had brought
him to Ghent?
"I came hither," he replied, at once, "with Master Richard of
Woodville."
The knight's brow was covered by a sudden cloud, and he demanded, in a
sharp tone, "Is he here now?--Are you his servant, then?"
"He is not here now," answered the man; "he has gone on with the Count
de Charolois, and did not think fit to take me with him any further."
"Then you are out of employment?" asked the knight.
"For the present, I am," said Ned Dyram; "but I shall soon find as
much as I want. I am never at a loss, sir knight."
"That is lucky for yourself," replied Simeon of Roydon; and then
abruptly added, "Will you take service with me?"
"No!" answered Dyram, bluntly. "I will take service with no one any
more. I was not meant for a varlet. I can do better things than be the
serving-man of any knight or noble."
"What can you do?" demanded Roydon, with a somewhat sarcastic smile.
"What can I not?" exclaimed Dyram. "I can read better than a
priest--write better than a clerk. I can speak languages that would
make your ears tingle, without understanding what you heard. I can
compound all essences and drugs; I can work in gold, silver, or iron;
and I know some secrets that would well nigh raise the dead."
"Indeed!" said the knight. "Then you must be a monk, or a doctor of
Oxford."
"Neither," replied the man; "but I see you disbelieve me. Shall I give
you a proof of what I can do?"
"Yes," answered Sir Simeon; "I should like to see some spice of your
skill."
"In what way shall it be," asked Ned Dyram. "If you will order up some
charcoal, with this little instrument and these pinchers I will make
you a chain to go round your wrist out of a gold noble; or, if there
be a Greek book in the monastery, I will read you a page therefrom,
and expound it, in the presence of whom you will, as a judge; for well
I wot you yourself know nothing about it."
"Nor wish to know," replied the knight; "but I will have neither of
these experiments; the one would be too long, the other too tedious.
You said that you had secrets that would well nigh raise the dead. I
have heard of such things, and I should like to see them tried."
"Would you not be afraid?" asked Ned Dyram.
"No!--Why?" answered Sir Simeon of Roydon. "The dead cannot hurt me."
"Assuredly," said Ned Dyram; "but yet, when we call for those who are
in their graves, we can never surely tell who may come. It is not
always the spirit we wish that answers to our voice; and that man's
heart must be singularly free, who, in the days of fiery youth, has
done no deed towards the silent and the cold, that might make him
shrink to see them rise from their dull bed of earth, and look him in
the face again."
"I am not afraid," said Roydon, after a moment's thought. "Do it if
you can."
"Nay, I said I had secrets that would _well nigh_ raise the dead,"
answered Ned Dyram. "I neither told you that they would, nor that I
was willing."
"Ha! it seems to me you are a boaster, my good friend," exclaimed the
knight, with a sneer. "Can you do anything in this sort, or can you
not?"
"I am no boaster, proud knight," replied Ned Dyram, in an angry tone,
"and I only say what I am able to perform. 'Tis you that make it more
than I ever did say; but if you would know what I can do, I tell you I
can raise the dead for my own eye, though not for yours. That last
great secret I have not yet obtained; but I trust ere long to do so;
and as you are incredulous, like all other ignorant men, I will give
you proof this very night."
"But how shall I know, if I do not see the shapes myself?" demanded
Sir Simeon of Roydon.
"I will tell you what I behold," rejoined the man, "and you must judge
for yourself. Those whom I call up shall all have some reference to
you. Have you a mirror there?"
"Yes," replied the knight; and while he rose to search for one, Dyram
strewed some small round balls upon the table, jet black in colour,
and apparently soft. The knight brought forward one of the small,
round, polished mirrors of the day, which generally formed part of the
travelling apparatus of both sexes in the higher class; and, setting
it upright, Dyram brought each of the little balls for a single
instant to the flame of the lamp, and laid them down before the
mirror. A thin white smoke, of a faint, but delicate odour, instantly
rose up and spread through the room, producing a feeling of languor in
those who breathed the perfume, and giving a ghastly likeness to all
things round; and, kneeling down before the table, Ned Dyram gazed
into the glass, pronouncing several words in a strange tongue,
unintelligible to the knight. The moment after his eyes opened wide,
and seemed almost starting from his head; and the knight exclaimed
eagerly, "What is it you see?"
"I see," replied the man, "a gentleman in a black robe seated at a
table; and he looks very sad. He is young and handsome, too, with
coal-black hair curling round his brow."
"Has he no mark by which I can distinguish him?" asked the knight.
"Yes," answered Dyram; "but it matters not for him, as I see he is
amongst the living. It is the absent who generally come first, and
then the dead. However, here's a scar upon his right cheek, as if from
an old wound."
"Sir Henry Dacre!" murmured Roydon. "Try again, man--try again; and
let it be the dead this time."
Dyram pronounced some more words, apparently in the same language; and
then a smile came upon his countenance. "A sweet and beautiful lady!"
he said. "How proudly she walks, as if earth were not good enough to
bear her! Ha! how is that?"--and, as he spoke, his face assumed a look
of terror: his lip quivered, his eye stared; and the countenance of
Sir Simeon of Roydon turned deadly pale.
"What do you see?" demanded the knight, in a voice scarcely audible.
"What do you see?"
"She walks by a stream!" cried Dyram, in a terrible tone, "and the sun
is just below the sky. Some one meets her, and they talk. He seizes
her by the throat!--she struggles--he holds fast--he casts her into
the river! Hark, how she shrieks! She sinks--she rises--she shrieks
again! Oh God! some one help her!--she is gone!"
All was silent in the room for a minute: and Ned Dyram, wiping his
brow, as if recovering from some great excitement, gazed round him by
the light of the lamp. Simeon of Roydon had sunk into a seat; and his
face was so ashy pale, the lids of his eyes so tightly closed, that
for a moment his companion thought he had fainted. The instant after,
however, he murmured, "Ah! necromancer!" and then starting up,
exclaimed, "What horrible vision is this? Who is it thou hast seen?"
"Nay, I know not," answered Ned Dyram. "How can I tell? They spoke
not;--'twas but a sight. But one thing is certain, that either the man
or the woman is closely allied to you in some way."
"What was he like?" demanded the knight, abruptly.
"It was so dark when he came that I could not see him well," replied
Dyram. "He was a tall, fair man; but that was all I saw. The lady was
more clearly visible; for when she came, there was a soft evening
light in the sky."
"Why, fool, it has been dark these two hours," cried the knight.
"Not in that glass," answered the other. "When she appeared first, it
was a calm sunset, and I saw her well; but it speedily grew dark, and
then I could descry nothing but her form, first struggling with her
murderer, and then with the deep waters."
"Her murderer!" repeated Simeon of Roydon--"her murderer! What was she
like?"
"A vain and haughty beauty, I should say," replied the man; "with dark
hair, and seemingly dark eyes, a proud and curling lip, and----"
"Enough, enough!" answered Simeon of Roydon, with resumed composure.
"I know her by your description, and by the facts; but in the man you
are mistaken--he was a dark man who did the deed, or suspicion belies
him."
"'Twas a fair man, that I saw," rejoined Dyram, in a decided tone; "of
that, at least, I am sure, though the shadows were too deep to let me
view his face distinctly. Shall I look again, to see any more, sir
knight?"
"No, no--it is sufficient!" cried Simeon of Roydon, somewhat sharply.
"I see you have not overstated what you can do. Hearken to me; I will
give you employment in your own way--much or little, as you like. I
would fain hear more of this girl, Ella Brune--of where she is, what
she is doing. I would fain find her--speak with her; but I am
discomposed to-night. This lady that you saw but now was very dear to
me; her sad fate affects me deeply even now. See, how I am shaken by
these memories!" And in truth his hand, which he stretched forth to
lay the mirror flat upon the table, trembled so, that he nearly let it
fall. "But of this girl, Ella Brune," he continued: "have you known
her long?--know you where she now is?"
"Nay, I was but sent to bear her a letter from Richard of Woodville,
and to counsel her from him, to go to York," replied Dyram. "Then, as
to where she is, I cannot say exactly--not to a point, that is to say;
but I can soon learn, if I am well entreated and well paid!"
"That you shall be," rejoined the knight. "Come to me to-morrow early,
and we will talk more. To-night I am unfit. Here is some gold for you
for what you have done. Good night, good night!"