THE FRIEND ESTRANGED.
Trumpet and timbrel were sounding in the streets of Ghent; the people,
in holiday costume, were thronging bridge and market-place; the
procession of the trades was once more afoot, with banners displayed;
the clergy were hurrying here and there with cross and staff, and all
the ensigns of the Romish Church. It was a high holiday; for the young
Count had given notice, immediately on his arrival, that he would be
ready an hour before compline, which may be considered about six
o'clock in the evening, to receive the honourable corps of the good
town, in order to return them thanks, in the name of his father, for
the liberal aid they had granted him in a time of need; and flushed
with loyalty to their Prince--well, I wot, a somewhat unusual
occurrence--and with a full sense of their own meritorious sacrifices,
each man pressed eagerly to be one of the deputies who were to wait
upon the Count; and, if that might not be, to go, at least, as far as
the palace gates with those who were to be admitted.
All the nobles who had accompanied the Count from Lille were present
in the great hall of the Cours des Princes, where the reception was to
take place, except, indeed, Richard of Woodville. He, soon after he
had arrived, had begged the Count's excuse for absenting himself from
his train; and, hurrying to the inn where he had left Ned Dyram, with
his horses and baggage, he dismounted from his charger, and cast off
his armour.
To his inquiries for his servant, the host replied, that he had not
been there since the morning, and, indeed, seldom appeared there all
day; but Woodville seemed to pay little attention to this answer; and,
merely washing the dust from his face and neck, set out at a hurried
pace on foot.
He thought that he knew the way to the place which he intended to
visit well, though he had only followed it once; and passing on, he
was soon out of the stream of people that was still flowing on towards
the palace. But he found himself mistaken in regard to his powers of
memory; long tortuous streets, totally deserted for the time, lay
around him; tall houses, principally built of wood, rose on every
side, throwing fantastic shadows across the broad sunshine afforded by
the sinking sun; and when he at length stopped a workman to ask his
way, the man spoke nothing but Flemish, and all that Woodville had
acquired of that tongue was insufficient to make the artisan
comprehend what was meant.
Leaving him, the young knight walked on, guided by what he remembered
of the direction in which the house of Sir John Grey lay; for it is
hardly needful to tell the reader that thither his steps were bent,
when suddenly a cavalcade of some five or six horsemen appeared,
coming at a slow pace up the street; and the tall graceful figure of a
man somewhat past the middle age, but evidently of distinguished rank,
was seen at their head. The garb was changed; the whole look and
demeanour was different; but even before he could see the features,
Richard of Woodville recognised the very man he was seeking, and,
hurrying on to meet him, he advanced to his horse's side.
Sir John Grey gazed on him coldly, however, as if he had never seen
him before; and Woodville felt somewhat surprised and mortified, not
well knowing whether the old knight's memory were really so much
shorter than his own, or whether fortune, with Mary's father, had
possessed the power it has over so many, to change the aspect of the
things around, and blot out the love and gratitude of former days, as
things unworthy of remembrance.
"Do you not know me, Sir John Grey?" he asked: "if so, let me recal to
your good remembrance Richard of Woodville, who brought you tidings
from the King, and also some news of your sweet daughter."
"I know you well, sir," replied the knight; "would I knew less. I hear
you have acquired honour and renown in arms. God give you grace to
merit more. I must ride on, I fear."
His manner was cold and distant, his brow grave and stern; but
Woodville was not one to bear such a change altogether calmly, though,
for his sweet Mary's sake, he laid a strong constraint upon himself.
"I know not, Sir John Grey," he said, "what has produced so strange a
change in one, whom I had thought steadfast and firm: whether calmer
thought and higher fortunes than those in which I first found you, may
have engendered loftier views, or re-awakened slumbering ambition, so
that you regret some words you spoke in the first liberal joy of
renewed prosperity; but----"
"Cease, sir, cease!" exclaimed the old knight. "I should indeed
regret those words, could they be binding in a case like this.
Steadfast and firm I am, and you will find me so; but not loftier
views or re-awakened ambition has made the change, but better
knowledge of a man I trusted on a fair seeming. But these things are
not to be discussed here in the open street, before servants and
horseboys. You know your own heart--you know your own actions; and if
they do not make you shrink from discussing what may be between you
and me--"
"Shrink!" cried Richard of Woodville, vehemently; "Why should I
shrink? shrink from discussing aught that I have done. No, by my
knighthood! not before all the world, varlets or horseboys, princes or
peers: I care not who hears my every action blazoned to the day."
"But I do, sir," replied Sir John Grey; "for the sake of those dear to
us both--for your good uncle's sake, and for my child's."
"You are compassionate, Sir John!" said Woodville, bitterly; but then
he added, "yet, no; you are deceived. I know not how, or by whom, but
there is some error, that is very clear. This I must crave leave to
say, that I am fearless of the judgment of mortal man on aught that I
have done. Sins have we all to God; but I defy the world to say that I
have failed in honour to one man on earth."
"According to that worldly code of honour we once spoke of, perhaps
not," replied Sir John Grey.
"According to what fastidious code you will," said the young knight.
"I stand here willing, Sir John Grey, to have each word or deed sifted
like wheat before a cottage door. I know not your charge, or who it is
that brings it; but I will disprove it, whatever it be, when it is
clearly stated, and will cram his falsehood down his throat whenever I
know his name who makes it."
"Ha, sir! Is it of me you speak?" demanded the knight, somewhat
sharply.
"No, Sir John," replied Woodville, "you are to be the judge; for
you," he added, with a sorrowful smile, "hold the high prize. But it
is of him who has foully calumniated me to you; for that some one has
done so I can clearly see; and I would know the charge and the
accuser--here, now, on this spot--for I am not one to rest under
suspicion, even for an hour."
"You speak boldly, Sir Richard of Woodville," answered Sir John Grey,
"and, doubtless, think that you are right, though I may not; for I am
one who have long lived in solitude, pondering men's deeds, and
weighing them in a nicer balance than the world is wont to use.
However, as I said before, this is no place to discuss such things;
but as it is right and just that each man should have occasion to
defend himself, I will meet you where you will, and when, to tell you
what men lay to your charge. If you can then deny it, and disprove it,
well. I will not speak more here. See! some one seeks your attention."
"Whatever it is that any man on earth accuses me of," replied the
young knight, without attending to Sir John Grey's last words, "I am
ready ever to meet boldly, for my heart is free. As you will not give
me this relief I ask even now, it cannot be too soon. I will either go
with you at once to your own house--"
"No, that must not be," cried the other, hastily.
"Or else," continued Woodville, "I will meet you two hours hence, in
the hostel called the Garland, on the market place. What would you,
knave?" he added, turning suddenly upon some one who had more than
once pulled his sleeve from behind, and beholding Ned Dyram.
"I would speak with you instantly, sir knight," replied Dyram, "on a
matter of life and death."
"Shall it be so, sir?" Richard of Woodville continued, looking again
to Sir John Grey, who repeated, thoughtfully, "In two hours--"
"Sir, will you listen to me?" exclaimed Dyram, in great agitation.
"Indeed you must. There is not a moment to lose. I tell you it will
bear no delay. If you would save her life, you must come at once."
"Her life!" cried Woodville, in great surprise. "Whose life? Of whom
do you speak, man?"
"Of whom? of Ella Brune, to be sure," replied Dyram. "If you stay
talking longer, you leave her to death."
Sir John Grey, with a bitter smile, shook his bridle, and, striking
his heel against his horse's flank, rode on.