There are some men whose native character, notwithstanding every artifice to conceal it, will penetrate through all disguises, and produce sensations which seem unreasonable, even to those who feel them without being able to trace them to their source. Such a one was Sir Simeon of Roydon. He had never been seen by any of Sir Philip Beauchamp's family to commit any base or dishonest act; and yet there was not one in all that household, from the old knight to the horse-boy, who did not internally believe him to be capable of every crafty knavery. His insinuations, therefore, in regard to Sir Henry Dacre, passed by as empty air, at least for the time; but all had, nevertheless, a strong conviction on their minds, that the doubts he had attempted to raise would rankle deep in the heart of their unhappy object, and poison the whole course of his existence, unless some fortunate event were to bring to light the real circumstances of poor Catherine Beauchamp's death.
The whole party, then, were in a sad and gloomy mood; and even the gay, young spirit of Mary Markham was clouded, as they sat round the fire in the great hall, on one of those April evenings when, after a day of summer sunshine, chilly winter returns with his fit companion, night.
As they were thus seated, however, each busy with his own thoughts, the sound of horses' feet in the court was heard, and, in a minute after, Dacre himself entered. He mounted the steps at the end of the pavement with a slow pace, and every eye was turned to his countenance to gather some indication from his look of the state of mind in which he returned. The old knight rose and grasped his hand, asking, in a low voice, "What news, Harry? Nay, boy, you need not strive to conceal it from me--I know what you went for. Will the slanderer do battle?"
"No, my noble friend," replied Dacre; "he is coward, too, as well as scoundrel. There is his craven answer; you may read it aloud. The matter is now over, and that hope is gone."
"You should not have done this, Harry, without consulting me," said Sir Philip; "I have some experience in such things. At the very last that was fought between any two gentlemen of rank and station, I was judge of the field, and know right well what appertains to knightly combat."
"Of that I was full sure," answered Dacre, pressing his hand; "and to you I should have applied for counsel and aid, as soon as I had brought him to the point; but I thought it best to be silent till that was done. I was vain, perhaps, Sir Philip, to think that these dear ladies might take some interest in such a matter--might feel anxious even for me; and 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.