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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ