Tales of the Wild and the Wonderful [1825]

by Mary Diana Dods

THE FORTUNES OF DE LA POLE.

In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men;
Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake.
Then a spirit passed before my face, the hair of my head stood up.

Job, chap. iv.

Early in the seventeenth century, on a very cold November morning, a gentleman of Winchester was returning to his home, by a road which then led by the borders of the New Forest. He was conversing gaily with his attendants, when his dogs arrested the mirth of the party, by darting suddenly into the mazes of the forest, and signifying their discovery of some unusual object by loud and continued howls. Sir Bernard Courtenay instantly followed their track, and was startled by discovering, amid the tangled bushes, the corpse of a man, frightfully mangled, and which appeared to have lain some time in its concealment. Little observation was necessary to point out the identity of the sufferer,—Sir Bernard Courtenay almost instantly recognised an intimate friend; and, with deep and painful commiseration, prepared to assist his attendants to convey the body to its home.

Many conjectures were immediately afloat, as to the cause and perpetrator of this dreadful act, and, as is ever usual in such cases, many more absurd and irrational than just:—there was no apparent possibility of tracing the fact; it appeared to mock all the art and all the power of justice. He had not been robbed—murder alone had been intended, and had alone been perpetrated; so that one fact at least was clear, that this deed had been the work of an enemy: no common one, it was presumed, if the appearance of the corpse might weigh any thing in evidence; it was mangled fearfully, and the frightful distension of the muscles, the grim and rigid expression of the features, the many deep and bloody wounds upon the body, and the firm and powerful grasp with which the strained fingers of one hand clenched a dark lock of human hair, while those of the other as firmly closed over the hilt of a broken dagger, gave tokens that a fierce and terrible struggle had preceded his unexpected destruction. It was hoped, that some corresponding token of wounds and fierce exertion might lead to a discovery of the murderer; for none deemed, after beholding the body, and calling to mind the noble courage of the victim when in life, that the destroyer could pass from that gripe unharmed.

He who had thus fallen, was one for whom every eye had a tear and every heart a genuine sigh; he had been the friend of all, the enemy of none; he was young, beautiful, and brave; and his native town had looked up to him as one who was to add new glory to her venerable name, and new lustre to his own princely blood; and cut off in the beginning of his career, the very high day of his happiness and beauty, and so cut off—who was there that did not lament for John de la Pole? But, though all Winchester, and the county in whose bosom it lies, sorrowed over the corpse of John de la Pole, the agony born from his death was to be found in his family alone; there he had been adored, and there most truly and deeply was his sad destiny accused. His young and lovely wife, scarce past her bridal year,—she who had, long before his marriage, been the secret object of his ardent love, and who, upon the death of his father, became the object of his choice—of her grief it was scarcely possible to think without affright; for, in that convulsion of soul into which, in the first horror of eternal separation from all we love, we invariably fall, she had withdrawn herself from all consolation of her friends—all succour of her attendants; and report whispered that she was using means, though quietly, (in order to avoid public shame,) to shorten a life which was now become odious and burthensome. To this cruel resolution she had been driven by a terrible incident: on the morning of the discovery of the body, she had, believing him to be on his road towards his home, ascended her carriage in order to meet him, and was driving cheerfully through the town, when her progress was arrested by the appearance of the crowd bearing the corpse of her husband. She recognised it at a glance, and, before they were aware of their imprudence, a piercing shriek announced to the people that she did so. She took another searching, distracted look at the body, and shrunk into the arms of her attendants, insensible and silent. They thought she was dead—it would not have been wonderful if she had been; the husband of her soul was lying before her, a deep gash across his throat, another had disfigured his snowy brow, and almost divided his once lofty head, while the bosom upon which she had been accustomed to repose was mangled and rent by stabs and blows too many to number—what an object for a young and loving wife! Remembrance was terrible to her, and the inability of justice to discover the murderer added despair to her grief, and thus compelled her to seek for consolation only in the prospect of death.

As bitter a grief, though perhaps not so deep or desperate, had fastened upon the heart of the only survivor of his family, a youth of twenty, of a beauty and virtue equal to his lamented brother, and who had indeed ample reason for his regrets. John de la Pole had been as a father to his youth, and loved him with a warmth far surpassing the kindness of ordinary brotherhood. Eustace had never been taught to remember that he was the younger, for the fortunes of his house were open to him, and the purse of the elder was common to both. On the marriage of the latter with his beloved Agatha, the younger had timidly hinted at his fears of an interruption to their friendship; but John had remedied this, by generously providing for his brother, and entreating his Agatha to allow him still a home at the castle: which being granted, Eustace, though still fearful of the influence of his lovely sister, continued to reside at home.

But the influence he so much dreaded during his life, became singularly apparent after the death of his beloved John. The will of the latter had indeed left an independence to Eustace, but nothing to support the splendour of that princely house of which he was now sole representative. All was assigned to Agatha,—she was the sole heir of her husband,—the being for whose sake alone he appeared to glory in the possession of wealth. Eustace indeed might still enjoy it, but it was upon a condition which drew the blood from the young man’s cheek as he read, and palsied the warm throbbings of the heart in his bosom; it was, that if John de la Pole should die childless before he had attained the age of thirty, Eustace should espouse his widow. His brother even entreated this sacrifice of him: he said, he knew his heart had been sensible of other charms, but he implored him to yield up this transient gratification to his eternal happiness. He could not endure, he said, the thought of averting from Eustace the fortune of his house; yet still less could he endure to know that Agatha would fill a subordinate state in his family to that in which he had placed her. He shuddered at the thought of her being driven, by this circumstance, to become the wife of another—of one who would love her, and whom she could also love. He besought Eustace therefore, if he valued his repose, to wed her, as no attachment subsisted between them, and he was satisfied to believe that by him she would be treated with gentleness. Agatha he entreated to comply with his last wishes, and accept the hand of Eustace within two months after his death, or be content to resign, with her present rank, the estates to the next of kin. Such was the will of John de la Pole. Eustace, full of grief, instantly retired from the castle of his sister, whom he believed as little inclined to fulfil the conditions of the will as himself, and resigned his spirit for some days to despair; but his friends rallied round him, and represented how much depended upon his calm decision. The next of kin had appeared too, a greedy rapacious man, the son of his father’s sister, who seemed to be sure of his inheritance, and whom John, (it was conjectured,) had purposely named, to stimulate his brother to fulfil his dying injunctions. Hugh de Broke was insolent and brutal, had never been upon kindly terms with his cousins, and had once nearly been murdered by the peasantry for wounding John in a quarrel which occurred a few years before. The inhabitants saw him return with disgust; his early brutalities were remembered; and when he boasted, in his drink, that he knew his cousin before his death intended to make a will in his favour, all Hampshire was ready to accuse him of the murder, and many of its gentlemen would have given half their estates to have been able to substantiate the charge. From earnest desire to action there is but one step: the thought was scarcely uttered by one, ere many endeavoured to prove it a fact, and Hugh de Broke became, from an object of mere dislike, one of abhorrence and suspicion. He was not told of the murmurs afloat respecting him; and he was too much accustomed to signs of dislike, to observe any thing new in their conduct. The eyes that glared upon him had nothing in them peculiarly ferocious to him now; nor did the deep mutterings and suppressed curses as he passed, startle him at this period from his path; he remembered the hatred of other days, and if he did observe any increase of this ill feeling towards him, he attributed their malignity less towards himself in his own person, than against the authority he would be enabled to hold over their actions as the fortunate heir of John de la Pole. At all events, he fortified himself against their inflictions, by resorting in some cases to the exercise of his native brutality, in others to a loud and bitter scorn, which only served to increase their abhorrence and his own unsuspected danger.

The accusers were wary in their proceedings, and silently went on collecting proofs and accumulating evidence, until they believed they had truly in the ruffian kinsman, discovered the murderer of their popular favourite. It was remembered, that after three years’ absence, he had appeared in Hampshire about a month previous to the murder of John, and then had suddenly disappeared, to re-appear as suddenly in Winchester after the contents of the extraordinary will were made public. He had boasted a previous knowledge of this document, and he had taken into his service the man who attended John in his fatal journey, and who, by delaying to follow his master, had given courage to the assassin to make the attack. This man had been dismissed by Eustace with a bitter reproof, and had immediately repaired to De Broke. Fear, or too much security, (it was affirmed,) had dictated the measure of his adoption, after a dismissal which ought to have rendered his services every where suspicious. John, it was urged, had been absent nearly a month, on a visit to a distant friend; he had set out on foot on his return, unaccompanied; for this man, according to his own statement, was commanded by his master to follow him with the horses, one of which (De la Pole’s) had been injured by an accident a few days before; but he had loitered long after, in order to keep an appointment which he had made with a damsel in the establishment of his master’s friend. He was for this loudly accused of treachery; and De Broke ferociously became his champion, with a violence that only defeated the object he had in view. The lock of hair found in the gripe of the corpse was remembered and produced; it was a bunch of thick and clustering curls, and had been forcibly torn from the head of the assassin. The hair of the servant was pale, but it was remarked that Hugh’s was dark and curling, and they sought an opportunity to compare them together. De Broke drove the party from his presence with every mark of contempt, and hardly deigned to assent to the repeated asseverations of his servants, that his hair was much darker, and altogether of a different texture from that produced as taken from the corpse. His conduct was resented warmly. By degrees all the gentry assumed the opinions of the mob; and when, in a violent attack upon his person, it was discovered that his hair had lately been polled in order to facilitate the cure of a wound, and which had hitherto been concealed by the (then) extraordinary contrivance of a peruke, the magistrates made open cause with the people, and Hugh was conducted to prison. There his conduct was sullen and brutal; he would give no explanation, save that the wound in his head arose from a fall from his horse. He was unusually ferocious; and considerably aggravated his case, by his constant threats of deep and deadly vengeance against Eustace de la Pole, who, he insisted, had conspired to cheat him of his estate, in conjunction with his other enemies. Many new proofs appeared against him, and the whole county awaited, in trembling suspense, the event of his anticipated trial.

But these anticipations were not to be gratified: a few nights before the arrival of the judges, Hugh had contrived to escape from his prison, and elude the vigilance of his enemies, by the aid, it was supposed, of his servant, for he also fled the country; and neither master nor man again fell into the hands of justice.

In the mean time, the interval months, the short period of time allowed for most important considerations, were fast wearing away; the two persons most interested in their progress had come to no decision; and though Hugh de Broke had for the present withdrawn his claim, yet he had heirs, who, neither more delicate nor more generous than himself, might endeavour to prove his incapacity, and substantiate their own in place of his. At all events, delays were dangerous, and the fortunes of De la Pole were too considerable to be put to hazard. Eustace loved another, and Agatha could not forget her husband; yet a compliance with the terms of the will became an absolute necessity. Though with averted hearts, they joined hands at the earnest entreaty of friends and relatives; nor would it have been possible to have refused, since even royal majesty evinced a solicitude, that the great fortunes and powerful political interest of the family should not pass into any other hands than those of that loyal and princely blood which had hitherto held them so nobly. Agatha and Eustace became man and wife, and vowed to cherish and love each other till death.