Agincourt (Historical Novel). G. P. R. James

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      CHAPTER VI.

       THE SUSPICIONS.

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ