In the first moment of sorrow, the friend who had so hastily sought the presence of Eustace, had done so under the compelling influence of the circumstance and the time; but a few moments had scarcely elapsed, ere Courtenay recovered sufficient recollection to decide that his wife had judged unwisely in so rapidly flying from the chamber of the poor Agatha, and bursting into that of her husband, dreading the influence the sudden grief might probably acquire over the already racked brain of the latter. With this feeling, Courtenay raised his eyes from the dead child to observe the countenance of Eustace, and if possible, form a judgment as to how he was likely to support this shock: but here his fears gave place to a new feeling, and his grief was overpowered by astonishment at the singular deportment of Eustace: the childless father advanced slowly towards the corse of his infant, and gazed upon it intently for a moment; a spasm of agony passed over his countenance, but there was no surprise mingled with its expression. “And is it indeed thus!” he murmured in a low and agonised tone of voice; “and so must my punishment begin!—yet better is it even thus, than that thou, poor distorted thing! shouldst live to reproach thy father, and, by thy sufferings, be an accusing witness against him.” A convulsive shivering seized upon his frame, and he seemed to be struggling with some difficult and awful resolve. At that moment a similar convulsion appeared to extend itself to the body of the infant; its eyes rolled, and one arm suddenly stretched itself out with a convulsive kind of movement, and remained extended, pointing towards Eustace. The struggle was at an end in an instant; the change from distracted to subdued sorrow was the work of a moment. He grew perfectly calm; and turning his looks again towards the infant, and addressing it in a low steady voice, “I thank thee,” he said, “for this warning; thou too shalt not have cause to reproach me; I have hesitated too long; but his will and thine shall be done.” Saying thus, his head drooped upon his bosom as in deep thought, and the extended arm of the child a moment after fell quietly down by its side.
Courtenay, the friend of Eustace, and the near relative of Agatha, now judged that in this moment of calmness he might venture some expressions of consolation. He deeply regretted that he should have mistaken the sleep of the infant for the last slumber of death, and he urged to Eustace the possibility that the union of medical skill and paternal care might relieve his child from its afflictions, and restore it, in natural beauty, to his love. He continued to dwell some time longer upon well intended topics of consolation, until he perceived that Eustace no longer heard his observations, or even remembered his presence. Suddenly, a new thought appeared to awaken the dormant faculties of the latter. “Has Agatha seen her child?” he demanded. “No,” replied the wife of Courtenay; “she was insensible at the time of its birth, and I instantly rushed from the chamber to seek counsel of my husband: he could give none; but, terrified as myself, followed me hither. Now, I deem, that as the child has uttered no sound since it came into the world, it were better she were told of its death; it will be but an anticipation of what must happen; for surely such an unhappy object cannot long exist.” “I know not that,” observed Eustace, sadly; “but at least do as thou hast said, and remove the child from the castle.” Courtenay retired from the apartment; and the wish of De la Pole was speedily obeyed.
But it seemed as if this unmeasured sorrow had brought calmness to him whom they feared it would annihilate: he sought not the apartment of his wife, but retired tranquilly to his own; and there was a stillness in it throughout the night, wholly unlike the restless pacings and disturbed groans which had hitherto been heard to issue from it. In the morning he went to Agatha; their conference was long and sad, for traces of tears were on her countenance when they parted; but the shrieks and agonies which had formerly distinguished their interviews were no more; she had caught consolation and fortitude from him, and her mind, it appeared, had now grown as resigned and tranquil as his own.
Eustace made a journey to a distant part of the country: he spoke nothing of his intention previous to his setting out, nor of its object on his return; that it had been of importance, could only be collected from the care with which he had concealed it, and the continual occupations which followed his arrival at Winchester. He was constantly employed in writing, and once or twice had had earnest conversations with Courtenay. It was during one of these that he received an unexpected interruption in the person of Agatha, who entered calmly the apartment of her husband, and demanded his attention. Courtenay arose, and was preparing to retire, when Agatha arrested his steps. “That which I have to say is for thy ear also,” she remarked; “stay, therefore, and answer me. Sleeping on my couch in the midday heat the voice of my damsels in discourse broke upon my ear, and the sound they uttered gave me to know that my infant boy yet lives; wherefore is it that it is not in the bosom of its mother? and why was it ever banished from her care?” There was a dead silence at the conclusion of this speech. Eustace replied not, and the lip of Courtenay trembled. “Eustace fears to reply,” observed Agatha; “he trembles to accumulate more sorrow upon this drooping head; he may, in tenderness, deceive; but thou, Courtenay, knowest not to lie, and from thy lips must the bitter truth come; wherefore is my infant not here?” “We feared it would die,” answered Courtenay; “and, therefore, in thy already terrible agony, wished to spare thee the spectacle of its dissolution.” “But it did not die,” pertinaciously resumed Agatha; “why was it not restored? it might have brought peace and consolation to the bosom of its mother.” “No, madam,” returned the shuddering speaker; “that child would have brought sorrow and dismay, but no joy to the heart of its unhappy parent. We removed it to a distance, fearing the effect of its appearance upon your mind; it is most fearfully disfigured.” “Disfigured!” repeated Agatha, with a thrilling start. A long pause ensued. “Let her behold the boy,” said Eustace, calmly. “Yes! let me behold my boy,” said the mother, while tears of sorrow heightened the lustre of those splendid eyes; “let me behold my boy; I shall not shrink from his sight, even though he be an eternal remembrancer of—” She paused, and sadly turned her eyes towards her husband. “Well, then, thou hast anticipated aright,” said Eustace; “he will be to thee an eternal remembrancer; to me—that ghastly face—that pointing hand—I will not behold them; yet do I rejoice in thy resolve, for such is thy painful duty, and thus wilt thou share my sacrifice without enduring my suffering.” He retired as he spoke; and soon after, conducted by Courtenay, in silence and secrecy, the hapless mother folded the ghastly boy to her breast.
It is rare that the human mind can dwell upon more than one wonder at a period. The neighbourhood, roused by the idle gossiping of the castle damsels, had begun to be astonished at the disappearance of the heir of De la Pole, who was said not to be dead, but deprived of his mother’s tenderness and his father’s succession; and, offended that there should be a secret, they determined that rendering justice to the injured child should be the apology for their own ungenerous curiosity. From this they were diverted by a singular incident.
A meeting of the gentlemen of the county had been called for some public purpose foreign to this narrative. In the midst of this discussion, it was observed that Eustace de la Pole was absent: this, to many who had known of his recent griefs and habits, was nothing singular; but those who resided more remote from the sphere of his influence, felt authorised to demand his presence and attention in a matter which was supposed deeply to interest the class to which he belonged. A messenger was despatched to request his attendance, and was told that he was preparing to wait upon them; and he who was charged with the embassy had scarcely returned to his employers, ere Eustace de la Pole entered the council-chamber, leading by the hand a tall and graceful youth, whom he placed at the table of the council, and behind whose chair he stood while he spoke. His words were few; but their stunning import threw horror and astonishment over the noble assembly. “I present to you this young man,” calmly said he; “and I have assigned to him his appointed place; mine it must be no longer; he is the son of Hugh de Broke, who is lately dead, and who, a few months since, was accused of the murder of John de la Pole. I come to render him a late, though, I trust, not useless justice, and restore the honour of his house. This youth is not only the heir of the fortunes of De la Pole, but of his father’s innocence, since I only was the murderer of my brother.”
It would not be possible to paint all the feelings of the audience who listened to this singular declaration, nor the contrariety of opinions that pervaded the minds of men upon its disclosure. Some asserted that derangement had fastened upon the mind of Eustace, and that he only imagined the fact; others, that grief had wearied him of existence, and that, preferring to die by other hands than his own, he had chosen this method of escaping from life and its convulsions; but the far greater part (as is ever the case in human judgments) decided for the darker side of the question, and concluded the self-accusation to be just, and were only now interested in analysing his motive. The will of the victim too became a subject of infinite wonder; and when, to every interrogatory (save those which implied the participation of Agatha, which he instantly and earnestly denied,) Eustace remained mute, indignation supplied the place of pity; and among those who had been his intimates and friends, had eaten of his bread and drank of his cup, there were not wanting some, who, baffled in their eager pursuit of the marvellous, and offended that a secret was denied to them, even hinted at the torture, as a means of compelling a discovery of his motives and accomplices.
There are many whose sickly existences find health only in the contemplation of the severer agonies of others; many who, without either hatred or malignity, yet love to feed their unnatural and craving appetites for singularities and horrors; and would rather cherish them with the blood of a dear friend, than suffer them to famish for want of sustenance. In small communities and country places, this inclination in the inhabitants is most apparent: here it was cruelly visible. John de la Pole had always been a popular man, and his destiny had afforded them a feast of blood, for which they felt grateful to his memory; from his murderer they could exact it, and they would: the loudest for justice appealed to the king for the application of the torture, and those who pitied the sufferer did not oppose the petition, as curious to behold the result.
The weak and inquisitive prince who then filled the English throne, saw something singular and mysterious in the conduct of the young De la Pole, and therefore unhesitatingly gave his assent to the sentence of his judges. The torture was borne by Eustace without a groan, though a close imprisonment of some weeks might have weakened his spirit and exhausted his bodily strength. He walked calmly and unsupported to the scene of suffering, conversing steadily with Courtenay, who never for an instant forsook him. From any outward tokens of anticipated agony or terror, it would have been difficult to distinguish the criminal from the spectator: he even smiled as he recognised his acquaintances in the crowd assembled to gaze upon his sufferings. There was only one action remarkable in his bearing at this trying juncture; on ascending the scaffold, and while they were binding his arms, his attention was arrested apparently by some object near him, though no one could be seen by the crowd, and during the whole period of the infliction of the “peine forte et dure,” the victim kept his eyes still fastened upon this spot, but without articulating a word. When the accumulated weights pressed so heavily on his sinking breast as to threaten dissolution, he raised his head to look upon his mangled limbs, and surveyed them in silent attention; he then turned his eyes to the spot which had so long occupied their regards, and, pointing with a slow and solemn motion to the load upon his breast, said, in a clear and steady tone, “Thou see’st!”
Eustace was remanded to prison; his friends, his enemies, those who were neither, all besought him with equal earnestness not to die with this secret sin upon his heart; he smiled at their anxiety, but answered nothing to their queries;—they doubted his guilt, ascribed his conduct to madness, to despair;—he replied by throwing off his cap and showing the scar in his head, from which his brother, in the last agonising grasp of death, had torn the dark and bloody lock which had once so nearly condemned the unfortunate De Broke,—and they were silenced. He continued steadfast to his purpose—silent, sorrowful, but calm.