Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  In a dark small room, high up in the back part of one of the houses inthe lower town of Nottingham, with the wall covered on one side byrough oak planking, and having on the other the sharp slope of theroof; on a wretched truckle bed, with a small table and a lamp besideit, lay the tall and powerful form of a wounded man, with languor inhis eyes, and burning fever in his cheek.

  On a stool at the other side sat Richard de Ashby, looking down uponhim with a countenance which did not express much compassion, but onthe contrary bore an angry and displeased look; and, while he gazed,his hand rested upon his dagger, with the fingers clutching, every nowand then, at the hilt, as if with a strong inclination to terminate hiscompanion's sufferings in the most speedy manner possible.

  "It was madness and folly," he said--"I repeat, it was madness andfolly to bring you here into the very midst of dangers, when I showedyou clearly how to shape your course."

  "We saw a party of horse upon the bridge, I tell you," replied Dighton,for he it was who lay there, with the punishment of one of his evildeeds upon him, "and could not find a ford. But, in the name of thefiend, do not stand here talking about what is done and over; let mehave 'tendance of some kind. Send for a leech, or fetch one."

  "A leech!" cried Richard de Ashby, "the man's mad! There is none butthe one at the court to be found here. Would you have the whole storyget abroad, and be put to death for the murder?"

  "As well that, as lie and die here," answered Dighton. "Why I tellthee, Dickon, I feel as if there were a hot iron burning through mefrom my breast to my shoulder, and every throb of my heart seems tobeat against it, and add to the fire. I must have some help, man!--Ifthou art not a devil, give we some water to drink. I am parched todeath."

  Richard de Ashby walked thoughtfully across the room, and brought him acup of water, pausing once as he did so, to gaze upon the floor andmeditate.

  "I will, tell thee what, Dighton," he said, "thou shalt have 'tendance.Kate here, it seems, saw them bring thee in. She is a marvellous leech;and when I was wounded up by Hereford at the time of the Prince'sescape, she was better than any surgeon to me. She shall look to thywound; but mind you trust her not with a word of how you got it; for awoman's tongue is ever a false guardian, and hers is not more to bedepended on than the rest."

  "Well," answered the man, discontentedly, "anything's better than tolie here in misery, with nobody to say a word to; I dare say you wouldas soon see me die as live."

  "No," replied Richard de Ashby, with a bitter smile, "I should not knowwhat to do with the corpse."

  "I thought so," said Dighton, "for I expected every minute, just now,that your dagger would come out of the sheath. But I have strengthenough still left, Dickon, to dash your brains out against the wall, orto strangle you between my thumbs, as men do a partridge; and I do notintend to die yet, I can tell you. But come, send this girl quick; andbid her bring some healing salve with her. There is a quack-salverlives at the top of the high street; he will give her some simples tosoften the wound and to take out the fire."

  "I will see to it--I will see to it," replied Richard de Ashby, "andsend her to you presently. I cannot visit you again to-night, for Imust away to the castle, but to-morrow I will come to you."

  Thus saying, he quitted the wretched room, and closed the door afterhim. The wounded man heard the key turn in the lock, and murmured tohimself--"The scoundrel! to leave me here a whole night and day withouthelp or 'tendance; but if I get better, I'll pay him for his care--I'llbreak his neck, or bring him to the gallows. I surely shall live--Ihave been wounded often before, and have always recovered,--but I neverfelt anything like this, and my heart seems to fail me. I saw worms andserpents round me last night, and the face of the girl I threw into theThames up by the thicket,--it kept looking at me, blue and draggled aswhen she rose the last time. I heard the scream too!--Oh yes, I shalllive--'tis nothing of a wound! I have seen men with great gashes--twiceas large. Ha! there is some one coming!" and he started and listened asthe lock was turned, and the door opened.

  The step was that of a woman, and the moment after, Kate Greenlyapproached his bed-side. Her fair face was pale, her lips had losttheir rosy red, her cheek had no longer the soft, round fulness of highhealth; and though her eye was as lustrous and as bright as ever, yetthe light thereof was of a feverish, unsteady, restless kind. Therewas a sort of abstracted look, too, in them. It seemed as if someall-engrossing subject in her own heart called her thoughts continuallyback from external things, whenever she gave her mind to them for amoment.

  Walking straight to the bed, and still holding the lamp in her hand,she gazed full and gravely upon Dighton's face; but the brain wasevidently busy with other matters than that on which her eyes rested;and it was not till the wounded man exclaimed, impatiently--"Well, whatdo you stare at?" that she roused herself from her fit of abstraction.

  "He has sent me," she said, "to tend some wounds you have received, butI can do you little good. The priest of our parish indeed gave me somesmall skill in surgery; but methinks 'tis more a physician for the soulthan for the body that you want."

  "That is no affair of thine," replied the man, sharply--"look to mywound, girl, and see if thou hast got any cooling thing that will takethe fire out, for I burn, I burn!"

  "Thou shalt burn worse hereafter," said Kate, sitting down by hisbed-side; "but show me the hurt, though methinks 'tis of little avail."

  "There," cried the man, tearing down the clothes, and exposing hisbrawny chest, "'tis nothing--a scratch--one may cover it with a finger;and yet how red it is around, and it burns inwardly, back to my veryshoulder."

  Kate stooped her head down, and held the lamp to the spot where thesword of the old Earl of Ashby had entered, and examined it attentivelyfor a full minute. As the man had said, it was but a small andinsignificant looking injury to overthrow the strength of that robustform, and lay those muscular limbs in prostrate misery upon a couch ofsickness, as feeble as those of an infant. You might indeed havecovered the actual spot with the point of a finger; but round about itfor more than a hand's breadth on either side, was a space of a deepred colour, approaching to a bluish cast as it came near the wound. Itwas swollen; too, though not much, and one or two small white spotsappeared in the midst of that fiery circle.

  When she had finished her examination, she raised her eyes to the man'sface, and gazed on it again, with a look of grave and solemn thought.

  "Art thou in great pain?" she said.

  "Have I not told you," he answered, impatiently--"it is hell."

  "No," she replied, shaking her head, "no, 'tis nothing like hell, myfriend. Thou mayest some time long to be back again there, on that bed,writhing under ten such wounds as this, rather than what thou shaltthen suffer. But thou wilt be easier soon. Seest thou that small blackspot upon the edge of the wound?"

  "Ay," he answered, looking from the wound to her face with an inquiringglance--"what of that?--Will that give me ease?"

  "Yes," she replied, "as it spreads.--Art thou a brave man? Dost thoufear death?"

  "What do you mean, wench?" he cried, gazing eagerly in her face, "Speakout--you would drive me mad!"

  "Nay," she replied, "I would call you back to reason. You have been madall your life, as well as I, and many another!--Man, you are dying!"

  "Dying!" he exclaimed, "dying!--I will not die! Send for thesurgeon--he shall have gold to save me.--I will not--I cannot die!" andhe raised himself upon his elbow, as if he would have risen to fly fromthe fate that awaited him.

  He fell back again the moment after, however, with a groan; and then,looking anxiously in the girl's face, he said, "Oh, save me--I cannotdie--I will not die in this way! Send for a surgeon--see what can bedone!"

  "Nothing!" replied Kate. "If all the surgeons in England and Francewere here, they could do nothing for thee. The hand of death is uponthee, man!--The gangrene has begun. Thou shalt never rise from that bedagain--thou shalt never feel the fresh air m
ore--thou art no longerthine own--thou art Death's inheritance--thy body to the earth, thyspirit to God that gave it, there to render an account of all that thouhast done on earth.--Think not I deceive thee!--Ask thine own heartDost thou not feel that death is strong upon thee?"

  "I do," groaned the man, covering his eyes with his hand. "Curses beupon my own folly for meddling with this scheme! Curses be upon thatfoul fiend, Dickon of Ashby, for bringing me into it, and leaving mehere till it is too late--till the gangrene has begun!--Curses uponhim!--and may the lowest pit of hell seize him for his villany!"

  "Spare your curses," said Kate, "they can only bring down fresh onesupon your own head. Think upon yourself now, poor wretch!--thinkwhether, even at this last hour, you may not yet do something to turnaway the coming anger of God!"

  "God!" cried the man--"shall I see God?--God who knows all things--whohas beheld all I have done--who was near when--Oh! that isterrible--that is terrible, indeed!"

  "It is terrible, but true," replied Kate; "but there is hope, if thouwilt seek it."

  "Hope!" exclaimed the man, mistaking her--"hope! Did you not tell me Imust die?"

  "Ay, your body," replied Kate, "'tis your soul that I would save. Athief obtained pardon on the cross. God's mercy may be sued for tillthe last."

  "But how--how?" cried he, "I know naught of prayers and paternosters.'Tis twenty years since, when a beardless stripling, I got absolutionfor stealing the King's game;--and what have I not done since? No, no,there is no hope! I must die as I have lived! God will not take off hiscurse for aught I can say now! If I could live, indeed, to undo what Ihave done--to fast, and pray, and do penance--then, in truth, theremight be a chance."

  "There is still hope," answered Kate--"thou hast still time to make agreat atonement. Thou hast still time to save thy soul. God, as if byan especial mercy, has provided the means for you to cancel half yourwickedness. I know all the tale: thou hast slain a poor old man, thatnever injured thee: but I tell thee that another is accused of hismurder--an innocent man, who--"

  "I know! I know!" cried Dighton, interrupting her, "'tis all hisfiendish art!" And then, gazing in her face for a moment, he added,"but why talkest thou to me of repentance?--why preachest thou to me,girl, and dost not practise thine own preaching? Art not thou a sinner,too, as well as I am, ha?--and do not they tell us that the soft sinsdamn as surely as the rough ones? Why dost thou not repent and makeatonement?"

  "I do," said Kate, firmly; "at this very hour I am aiming at noughtelse. Thinkest thou that I love that man? I tell thee that I hatehim--that I abhor the very sight of his shadow, as it darkens thedoor--that the touch of his very hand is an abomination. But I abidewith him still to frustrate his dark deeds--to protect those that areinnocent from his fiendish devices--to give him to the arm ofjustice--and then to lay my own head in the grave, in the hope of God'smercy."

  "But who tells thee thou shalt find it?" asked Dighton.

  "God's word," replied Kate, "and a good priest of the holy church, bothtell me that, if, sincerely repenting, I do my best to make up for allthat I have done amiss--if, without fear and favour, I labour to defendthe innocent even at the expense of the guilty, I shall surely obtainmercy myself in another world, though I wring my own heart in this."

  "Did a priest say so?" demanded Dighton, looking up, with a ray of hopebreaking across his face--"send for that priest, good girl!--send forthat priest!--quick! He may give me comfort!"

  Kate paused for a moment, without reply, gazing down upon the ground,and then said, "'Twould be hard to keep thee from the only hope offorgiveness, yet----"

  "Yet what?" exclaimed he, impatiently. "In God's name, woman, I adjurethee----"

  "Wilt thou do what the priest bids thee do?" demanded Kate.

  "Yes--yes!" cried he--"I will do all sorts of penance!"

  "Even if he tells thee," continued Kate, "to make such aconfession----"

  "Ay, ay," said the man, "that's what I want--I want to confess."

  "Nay, but," replied Kate Greenly, "not a mere confession to the ear ofthe priest, buried for ever under his vow, but such a confession as maysave the innocent--as may bring the guilty to justice--as may declarewho was the murderer, and who instigated the murder?"

  "No," cried the man, "I will not betray Ellerby. As to Richard deAshby, if I could put a stone upon his head to sink him deeper intohell, I would do it,--but I wont betray my comrade."

  "Well, then," said Kate Greenly, "you must even die as you havelived.--I can do nothing for you."

  "Get thee gone, then, harlot!" cried the man. "If thou art not a fiend,send me a priest!"

  Kate Greenly's eye flashed for a moment at the coarse name he gave her,and her cheek burnt; but the next instant she cast down her gaze again,murmuring, "It is true!" Then turning to the wounded man, she said, "Imind not thy harsh words; but it is needless for me to seek a man ofGod, unless thou wilt promise to do what I know he will require beforehe gives thee absolution. I promised to let no one see thee at all. Tosend for any one I must break my promise, and I will not do so for nopurpose. Wilt thou do what the priest tells thee, even if it be to makepublic confession of who did that deed?"

  "No," cried the man, "I will not betray him! Get thee gone, if thouwilt!--Curses upon you all!"

  Kate moved towards the door, but turned ere she went, and said, "I amin the chamber beneath! Think well what it is to go into the presenceof God unrepenting and unabsolved--to meet all that thou hast injured,and all that thou hast slain, accusing thee at the high throne above,without the voice of a Saviour to plead for thee! Think of all this, Isay; and if thy heart turn, and thou wilt resolve to do an act ofatonement and repentance, strike on the ground with thy sword, itstands at thy bedhead; and I will come to thee with the best physicianthat thou cant now have. One that can cure the wounds of the spirit."

  The man glared at her without reply, and Kate Greenly passed out,closing and locking the door. She paused at the stairhead, and claspedher hands, murmuring, "What shall I do?--He must not die withoutconfession.--He must have consolation--Perhaps Father Mark mightpersuade him. But he will last till morning. 'Tis now near eight; Iwill wait awhile--solitude is a great convincer of man's heart." And,descending the stairs, she entered the room below.

  Half an hour passed without the least sound, and Kate sat gazing intothe fire, unable to occupy herself with any indifferent thing. The timeseemed long; she began to fear that the murderer would remain obdurate,and she had risen, thinking it would be better to send for Father Markat once. She had scarcely taken three steps towards the door, however,when there was a stroke or two upon the floor above, and then theclanging fall of some piece of metal, as if the heavy sword had droppedfrom the weak hands of the wounded man.

  Kate ran up with a quick foot, descended again in a few minutes, and,ere half an hour was over, a venerable man, with silver hair, wassitting by the bed of death; and Kate Greenly kneeling with paperbefore her, writing down the tale of Dighton's guilt from his own lips.