"I told him so," replied Woodville; "and he asked, why, as you both clearly wished the bond that bound you to each other loosed, you did not apply to the Church and the law to break it? I said, what perhaps had better not been said, but yet what I believed, that, if you proposed it, she would not consent, for that she loved to keep you as a captive, if not by love's chains, by any other. He fancied, Harry, that, if that incomplete union were dissolved, you might be happy with another--ay, with Isabel."
"Ha!" exclaimed Dacre; "ha! Have I been so careless of my looks that a mere stranger should--" and he bent down his brow upon his hands, and remained for a moment silent. Then looking up, he added, "Well, Richard, I have been a fool; but was it possible to stand between a desert and a paradise, and not regret that I could never pass the boundary; to look into a scene of joy and peace, and not long to rest the weary heart, and cool the aching brow in the calm groves, and pleasant glades before me? Who would compare those two beings, and not choose between them, in spite of fate? But what said he more?"
"He thought you might be happy," answered Woodville, "and that the only barrier was one that he might prompt Catherine to remove herself. For that object he humoured her caprice, and played with her light vanity. He told me that he would; and I saw that he did so; for his was no heart to be suddenly made captive by one such as Catherine Beauchamp. Besides, it was clear, his words, half sweet, half sour, were all aimed at that end; for ever and anon, when his tone was full of courteous gallantry, some sharp jest would break through, as if he could not keep down the somewhat scornful thoughts with which her idle vanity moved him."
"Then I did him wrong," answered Dacre; "for had he succeeded, and led her to propose of her own will that our betrothing should be annulled, no boon on all the earth could have been equal to that blessing. It has turned out sadly; yet I will not blame him; for who can tell when he draws a bowstring in the dark where the shaft may fall? But say, Richard, was he aware you knew his station?"
"I never told him," replied his friend; "but I think that he divined. You see, in his letter, that he gives no explanation. But listen, Harry; will it not be better--now that we have spoken freely on this theme--will it not be better, I say, for you to return home, let the first memory of these dark days pass away, and seek for happiness with one who may well make up for all that you have suffered in the past."
"What!" cried Dacre, "with this stain upon my name? Oh, no! that dream of joy is gone. No, no, my only course is to forget that there is such a thing as love on earth, or to think with your friend Chaucer's lay, that--
'--Love ne is in yonge folke but rage,
And is in olde folke a grete dotage,
Who most it usith, he most shal enpaire
For thereof cometh disese and hevinesse
So sorrow and care, and many a grete sicknesse,
Despite, debate, and angre, and envie,
Depraving shame, untrust, and jelousie,
Pride, mischefe, povertie, and wodeness.'"
"'Tis the song of the cuckoo," Harry replied Woodville; "but this sad humour, built upon a baseless dream, will pass away when you find that the suspicions which you now fancy in every one's heart, live but in your own imagination; and then you will answer with the nightingale--
'That evirmore Love his servauntes amendeth,
And from all evil tachis them defendeth;'
but Time must do his own work; and till then, argument is of no avail. Yet I would fain not have you lose bright days with me in foreign lands. Happy were I if I could stay like you in hope, and lead the pleasant summer life, beneath the lightsome looks of her whom I love best. Think of it, Harry, think of it; and do not rashly judge that you see clear till you have wiped the dust out of your eyes."