“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open to so peerless a knight.”
“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of Scotland.”
“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal, and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”
Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.
“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.” [[508]]
This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice; he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the entrance.
Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman, knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her; unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom, he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.
In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door, believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the steps of his host coming hurrying after him.
“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.” [[509]]
As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.