"What hope?" asked Woodville, looking into his uncle's face for speedier information.

"None!" replied the Abbot. "How has this chanced, my son? there are marks of violence."

The same tale was told over again; but this time Richard of Woodville added the fact of a horse's feet having been heard; and the Abbot mused profoundly.

"I will have the body carried down to the Abbey," he said, at length.

"You, Richard, speed to my brother, and break the tidings there. Come down with him to the Abbey, and we will consult. Bring Dacre, too.

"Dacre has been gone more than two hours," answered Richard of Woodville; "but I will seek my uncle Philip," and he turned towards the door.

Hal of Hadnock stayed him for a moment, however, saying, "I must ride on, Richard. You know that my call hence admits of no delay. But let every one remark and remember, for this matter must be inquired into, that I heard and saw all that this good friend of mine did; the shrieks, the galloping of a horse, the body in the water. You shall have means of finding me, too, should it be needful; and now, my Lord Abbot, a sad good night. Farewell, Richard; you shall hear from me soon." Thus saying, he quitted the cottage, mounted his horse, and rode away at a quick pace.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SUSPICIONS.

Upon the borders of Hampshire and Suss.e.x, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 ma.s.ses 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d'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 n.o.ble 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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed 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, n.o.ble 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, a.s.sumed 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.