“You remember the reading of that will; you remember the arrival of De Broke; poor wretch! his drunken falsehoods, his silly boasts, and above all, his ungoverned insolence, has cost him fatally dear. I was not concerned at the suspicion which fell upon him; on the contrary, I rejoiced it had found such an object: but I trembled with horror when I beheld him conducted to a dungeon, and reflected on the probability of his paying the penalty of my crime. Guilty enough already, this accumulation of sin appalled me, and I determined that innocent blood at least should not cry out from earth against me. In the night previous to the day fixed for his trial, which I dreaded equally, whether he should be condemned or acquitted, I sought his prison, and, by an exaggerated account of the popular rage against him, prevailed upon him to accept the means of escape; his servant who attended him, terrified by the picture I drew of his master’s danger, united his entreaties to mine. Hugh’s courage and fortitude gave way to our solicitations; he fled, and preserved his life at the expense of his honour and his peace.
“I cannot express to you how deep was the pang the ruin of this man’s character gave me, nor how I shrunk from the eyes lifted to mine in commiseration, whenever his name was mentioned before me; even now, now that I have rendered back such severe justice, my heart sickens as I recall the curses which I heard heaped upon his head as the murderer of John de la Pole. I should have suffered less had they branded the criminal unknown, but to hear an innocent man thus accused for me—O Courtenay! thou knowest not, mayest thou never know, remorse.
“I reasoned much even then upon the folly of this conduct; I said, I am a cowardly villain, a sneaking murderer, who fears the consequences of the crime he yet feared not to commit. Why should I be careful of this man’s life? what is his safety to me? his death might be my security, at least would prevent suspicion from falling elsewhere: are not his manners brutal, his heart selfish, avaricious, and cruel? who will miss him from the earth? and by whom will his loss be mourned? But it is my crime for which he will suffer, and the curse of innocent blood will lie upon my head: neither has he injured me, that I should doom him so hardly; I cannot even taste the luxury of revenge. These thoughts disquieted me, and, recurring more frequently than I could bear, influenced my conduct in regard to the prisoner. ‘The means of escape shall be offered to him,’ I said; ‘if, innocent, as he knows himself to be, he be coward enough to accept them, he is worthy of the opprobrium which will cling to him, and I ought not to grieve for that ruin of character which he himself alone will effect.’
“With this wretched sophistry I endeavoured to reconcile my conscience, and, strange to say, I succeeded; care and regret departed from my bosom, and I looked forward to the day of my approaching union with Agatha with an impatience which I found it difficult to control: it came at length, and under happy auspices, for all our friends were assembled around us, and I saw in my beloved’s tranquil smile the scarce concealed joy of her heart.
“You remember that day, Courtenay—you remember the brilliant assemblage and the gay festival of night—you remember how brightly sparkled the jest, how sweetly sounded the song, and how every creature present seemed wrapped in the delicious intoxication of the hour—you remember my parting commands after Agatha had retired, to carouse till the day-break, and make the young sun a witness of your felicity; you did so; it was a scene of joy and splendour. Alas! there was another, and a widely different, passing in a more retired part of the castle.
“I must pause in my narrative here for a few moments; all that has as yet been detailed has been plain and simple fact, subject to no doubts, liable to no misconstructions; hitherto all has been clear; that which will follow is wild, strange, and improbable—mysterious, incomprehensible indeed, yet not less true than that which I have hitherto written. How shall I make you understand what I have to present to your mind? In what words shall I clothe a narrative so extraordinary as to prevent its stamping me with the opprobrium of folly or madness? Even now, in my dying hour, on the very steps of the scaffold, I hesitate at the thought of being lightly esteemed by thee, or my sacrifice regarded as the result of a weakened intellect or a disordered brain: it is more easy to die as a knave than be lamented as a fool.
“Agatha had withdrawn from the hall with her damsels, and I hastened to follow her; she had retired to an apartment adjoining her bridal chamber, and thither, wearied of the noise and mirth of the rioters below, I also hastened. I longed for a delight I had not lately experienced, an unreserved conversation with my wife, and to be allowed to dismiss the coldness which, during the day, I had been obliged to feign towards her. The damsels retired, and we were left to pour out our hearts to each other in the unbounded confidence of our new relations, when we were startled by hearing a slow and heavy foot steadily ascending the stairs; as these were private, leading only to our apartments, Agatha was surprised and offended. ‘Who would intrude at this hour?’ she demanded, while her eyes turned anxiously towards the door. For me, a thrill of horror shot through my inmost heart; I said, relinquishing the hand I had till then so fondly clasped in mine, ‘That is the step of my brother!’
“And it was so, Courtenay: a moment more and the door slowly opened of itself to give entrance to its master; John de la Pole entered the room and stood between Agatha and me; his face was as in his dying hour, ghastly and menacing, and every gash of the murderous knife upon his body as frightfully distinct as on the night they were inflicted. In one hand he held a lock of dark hair; the other was extended threateningly towards me; and thus he stood between us, drawn from another world by the crime I meditated against his bed, and an everlasting barrier before it.
“My first emotion was astonishment—a boundless and stupified surprise—then a vague and horrid notion that my brother was not really dead, that he had escaped alive from my hands, and was now come to accuse and surrender me up to scorn. The interval which had passed since his death was obliterated from my mind, and I felt as if that night had been the season of the deed. I spoke in extenuation of my crime, accused his selfishness, cursed his calculating cruelty; I implored his mercy, folded my hands in supplication, and knelt before him in humble debasement. No muscle of his countenance moved, and not a sound escaped through his bruised and blackened lips; he did not even look upon me, but continued to fasten his stony eyes upon the face of Agatha, who stood silent and motionless as himself, gazing like a fascinated thing upon his aspect of horror. I arose from my knees—shut my eyes—tossed my arms abroad to the air—endeavoured to think I was in sleep, in drunkenness, in delirium: no, he was still there!—I thought of the agony of tempestuous feeling I had endured on the night following the commission of the crime, and, believing that my jaded mind was suffering under the same infliction, resolved to seek my couch, to restore my exhausted spirits by rest and sleep. I made an effort to move from my place; I knew that motion might recall my scattered senses; and I exerted myself to enter the chamber of Agatha. Wilt thou believe me, Courtenay? the stern shadow anticipated my movement, and, menacing me back, strode silently towards my bridal chamber. At the door its menacing attitude towards me was changed for one of command to Agatha; one bloody finger was raised to beckon her to follow: she did so. Still stupidly insensible, gazing fixedly upon his form, she followed the direction of his hand, and passed after him into the chamber: the door closed upon them without a sound.
“Now I began to think more calmly: the dead, cold thing was gone, and there was life and air in the apartment; the feelings of this world came upon me, and I became sensible of fear. I was safe; but where was Agatha?—he had beckoned her forth—was it reality?—she was gone—had it been the work of imagination, she had still been there—but she might have retired to her chamber alone. This was to be ascertained. I attempted to enter—the door was fast; I called upon Agatha—there was no sound in reply; I reviewed the last scene, considered the incidents of the past, weighed the appearances of the present, and came at length to the terrible conclusion that a spirit of the damned had stood before me, and that Agatha was still in his grasp! You will not wonder that temporary insanity followed this hideous idea: I grew wild at the thoughts of her danger; I shrieked aloud for mercy; I tore my hair in agony, and beat at the closed door with the utmost exertion of strength. I wonder even now that none heard the uproar I made; but my cries remained unanswered—no sound issued from the bridal chamber of the dead, and I continued to rave until nature, exhausted, sunk speechless and senseless to the earth.