MISTRESS NANCY TELLS ME MANY THINGS.
"I can think of nothing to say to you till I have thanked you again and
again for a service which I thought no woman could render."
"It is of that which I do not wish to speak."
"But I must. I did not believe a woman could possess such rare courage
and foresight. I did not believe a woman could plan so well, execute so
bravely. Especially do I wonder when I realize my own unworthiness. I
thank you from the depths of my soul."
Mistress Nancy had visited my compartment as she had promised, and at my
request she sat on a low seat by the fire, while I stood leaning on the
back of the huge chair which I have mentioned. She wore the same
garments as when we had travelled together for the first time. Her face
was pale, but very beautiful; her dark eyes shone with a look of
resolution; her dark curling locks glistened in the lamp-light.
"I did not mean you to know who your deliverer was. But it does not
matter." She spoke indifferently, I thought.
"It does matter!" I cried vehemently. "I should be base indeed if I do
not remember such service with gratitude until my dying day."
"I did what no woman could help doing." This she said slowly.
"I do not understand."
"Yet there should be no difficulty in doing so. You rescued me, you
thought of me, acted for me."
"Mention not that again," I replied bitterly, "I am sorely ashamed."
"I do not mean the--the first part of the journey, but afterwards. I
have heard of your trial before Lord Falmouth, heard of what Otho
Killigrew said. You refused to tell all the truth because you feared to
hurt me. You did not wish that man to know anything concerning me."
I wondered who her informant might be, but I did not speak.
"When I knew you were taken to Launceston, and feeling sure that Otho
would show no mercy if you were brought to trial, I did my best. I could
do no other--I--I--would have done the same for any one."
She spoke coldly; her tones were hard and unfeeling. My heart grew
chill; the hope that arose in me, in spite of myself, was dispelled.
"Thank you," I said, as steadily as I could. "But why--why did you wish
me to remain in ignorance--as to who you were?"
"Because I thought it was better so. No one who saw me in Launceston
would recognize me now."
"What disguise did you wear? What means did you use to--to effect my
escape; that is, beyond those I know of?"
"I would rather not tell you."
I was silent again, for her manner made me feel that she still scorned
me. I looked towards her; she was gazing steadily into the fire.
"Where am I now?" I asked, after a painful silence.
"At Restormel."
"Ah!"
"Does the fact surprise you?"
"Everything surprises me. Nothing surprises me. I am somewhat dazed.
Restormel, that is your father's house, your own home?"
"My father's house--yes. My own home--I know not."
"What do you mean?" and at that moment I remembered the suspicions which
were aroused in my mind by Otho Killigrew's questions.
Again she refrained from replying, her eyes still fixed on the glowing
embers.
"Let me tell you something," I cried. "My thoughts may be groundless,
but it may be well for you to know them."
Then I related to her the conversation I had had with the Catholic
priest at Padstow. At that time I had not regarded it of importance, as
it simply referred to a complaint about the unfairness of the marriage
laws, where Catholics were concerned. After this I told her of Otho
Killigrew's visit, of what he had said, and of the bargain we had made.
"On consideration I thought it best to promise him this," I concluded.
"He aroused certain suspicions in my mind, and I thought I could still
serve you if I were free. It may be I acted wrongly, but I thought it
was worth the risk."
During the recital she uttered no sound. She seemed to be much changed
since that night when we had parted at Treviscoe.
"And I--I have relieved you of the necessity of telling him anything, I
suppose?" she said icily.
"Yes," I replied, feeling that she mistrusted me again. I longed to ask
her what had happened since the night I had left her with Peter Trevisa,
but I dared not; her manner froze the words on my lips.
"You do not know why Trevisa asked you to take me to his house?" she
said presently.
"I only know what he told me. I knew that was not all the truth. He
thought he had some hold upon you."
"And you had no idea what it was?"
"Not then."
"And now?"
"Nothing but what was aroused in my mind by what I have just told you."
"Master Roger Trevanion," she said, rising from her seat and facing me,
"you tried to persuade me not to go to that man's house."
"I did."
"And I persisted in going. I did so for two reasons."
"And they?"
"One was that you should be able to claim the price of your hire."
"Do not taunt me with that."
"The other was that I determined to find out the reason he had in
wishing to get me there. I had not been able to understand all the
Killigrews had hinted from time to time. I thought that Trevisa's
motives might have a connection with what they had said."
"And you were not afraid?"
"Women are not all so cowardly as you think. I might have acted
differently had his son been with him, but when I found him alone I
determined to stay until I had discovered what was in his mind."
"And you discovered it?"
"Yes."
I could not help admiring her as she stood there before me so brave, so
far-seeing, so resolute. She was barely twenty-one. She had revealed to
me all the weaknesses, all the tenderness of a woman; yet now, after
having accomplished what few men would think of attempting, she was
calmer than I. As I have said, she was taller and more largely formed
than most women, and the hand that rested on a table by her side was as
firm as a man's. No one could in any way associate her with littleness
or poverty of nature. Everything told of purity, of nobleness, of beauty
of life. Remembering my bargain with Trevisa, I dared not look at her;
but I was glad I had refused to take the price of my work.
I waited for her to continue, for I felt I had no right to ask her
questions.
"You told me," she went on, "that Peter Trevisa was a cunning,
evil-minded man. You were right. Like all such men, he judged the
motives of others by his own. What he would do under certain
circumstances, he would expect others to do."
"Yes, that is so."
"He thought, acting on this principle, that if he could get me into his
house, I should be glad to fall in with his plans."
"He told me that his son Peter had seen you at Endellion," I said; "that
he fell in love with you, that it was the intention of Colman Killigrew
to marry you to his son whom you hated, that I should be rendering you a
service by taking you to him."
"Do not speak of his son's love," she said; "the thought of it is not
pleasant. It is true he told me the same story. I did not sleep in the
house that night. Directly after your lawyer had gone I told him I
desired to speak with him. He fawned and professed to be delighted.
Presently his real reasons for trying to get me into the house came out.
He tried to keep them back until his son came home, but in this he
failed."
"And what were his reasons?" I asked eagerly in spite of myself.
"The first was this: He said he could prove that my father's marriage
was illegal, and--and thus I had no true claim to the Restormel lands.
You suspected this?"
I nodded.
"He told me, moreover, that he alone possessed the knowledge whereby it
could be proved that I was not the rightful heir. If he did not disclose
what he knew, no one would doubt my rights; or even if they doubted,
they could have no case against me; if he told what he knew, I should be
penniless."
"I see," I cried; "I see. Then he named the price of his silence."
"Yes."
"Of course that was that you should marry his son. I see. It was
cunningly planned. He thinks his son Peter is a sort of Apollo, and he
imagined that you would desire to effectually stop him from speaking by
becoming his daughter. It would then be to his advantage to be silent."
"That was a part of his plan, but not all. He has found out that I
possess knowledge of great importance."
"Knowledge of great importance?"
"Yes. It concerns the coming of Charles Stuart."
"You have seen the Pretender!" I cried.
"I have seen Charles Stuart. He visited the convent in which I was
educated. He came once when Colman Killigrew was present. He sought to
enlist my sympathies. I do not know why; but both he and Colman
Killigrew discussed plans in my presence."
"And young Peter Trevisa found out this. How?"
"I do not know."
"Is your knowledge of such importance that it might be valuable to such
as Hugh Boscawen?"
"Yes."
I longed to ask further questions, but refrained from doing so.
"Peter Trevisa believed that if I told him what I knew his son would be
able to make use of it. The father is very ambitious for his son. He
imagines that if he were to communicate important knowledge to the King
it would mean preferment--perhaps knighthood."
"I see his plot."
"I refused to marry his son."
"Yes."
"I told him that even were his statements as to my father's marriage
true, I would rather be penniless--than be bought."
I do not think she meant it, but her words hurt me like a knife-thrust.
"After that he changed his ground of attack," she went on quietly; "he
said that if I would tell him what I knew of Charles Stuart's plans, his
secret should die with him. He represented this as my duty. He said I
might be saving the country, as well as giving his son Peter the
greatest chance of his life. After this he went on to say that it was a
shame for me to be robbed of my rightful heritage because of an unjust
law."
"And after that?" I broke in eagerly.
"He said he would not have my answer that night; he would wait until
young Peter came home."
"And you, of course, refrained from giving him an answer?"
"No. I told him that he could act as he pleased. Did I feel it a duty to
inform the authorities concerning what I knew, I should do so without
threat."
"And what did he say?"
"He denied all knowledge of threat. He called it an _arrangement_. He
used honeyed terms; he was full of flattery. He professed to be
delighted at my refusal to comply with his wishes, even while he used
many means to lead me to alter my mind. He called himself all sorts of
names for speaking to me in such a brutal way. He was only an old fool,
he said, and had not stated the case properly; but when young Peter came
back everything would assume a different aspect."
I could easily imagine the scheming old wretch while she told me of this
interview. I could see his shifty, cunning eyes gleaming. I could hear
him using all sorts of honeyed terms in order to gain his ends.
"And the conclusion of it all?" I asked at length.
"I left the house that night."
"How?"
"By means of Amelia. She found out the position of the stables. She
saddled the horses, and we left Treviscoe without any one knowing about
it."
"And you came here?"
"Yes."
"But you are in danger. Peter Trevisa is as cunning as the devil. Both
father and son are like ferrets; they can crawl into any hole. They see
in the dark. In order to get here, you must have taken some one into
your confidence. That some one may betray your trust."
She walked slowly across the room, and then came back to her former
position.
"That night--when I left Endellion," she replied, "I took certain things
away with me. Little relics left me by my father. I had heard that the
house was left in charge of two old servants--one a kind of bailiff, who
was commissioned by Colman Killigrew to act as steward until I should
come of age."
"I see, yes."
"He has lived here all these years, with his wife. My guardian has
visited Restormel only occasionally, but old Adam Coad has been a
faithful old man. My father left a letter for me when he died, with
orders that I should read it as soon as I was old enough. In it he
mentioned this man as a faithful, loving servant. I wrote to Adam twice
while I was in France; but I received no reply from him."
She ceased speaking, and I saw her lips tremble. Perhaps she remembered
that she was a fatherless girl, and that her path was beset with snares.
"I accidentally heard while at Endellion that he was alive and that he
managed the estate under my guardian's supervision."
"You brought your father's letter with you?" I suggested.
"Yes."
"But there is a lodge. We passed through the gates to-night."
"Fortune favoured me. That morning, after I had escaped from Treviscoe,
just as I came up to the lodge gates, I saw two men talking to each
other. I heard the one call the other Adam Coad."
"I see; and Adam received you?"
"After I had proved to him who I was--yes."
"And--and you trust him?"
"He is all my father said of him, and more. He has been kindness itself
to me; through him I was able to bring you here. You are safe, too. Old
Adam, his wife, and a serving-man who has lived with them all these
years, are all, I verily believe, ready to die for me."
"Then you are staying here in secret?"
"Yes."
"And you have heard nothing of the Trevisas?"
"I know they have been searching for me."
"But they have disclosed nothing concerning your father's marriage?"
"No; I believe not."
"You found out that I had been taken prisoner through Adam, I suppose?"
"Yes. He looks a quiet, inoffensive old man; but he is very shrewd and
not easily deceived. I told him that you had effected my escape from
Endellion, and he knew enough of the Killigrews to be sure that they
would have many schemes afoot."
"But if they suspect that you are here?"
"They would have a difficulty in finding me. This house has many rooms
not easily discovered. This room is not known to the Killigrews. It is
underground. The doorway cannot be seen from the outside, and can only
be opened by touching a spring."
"I see; and you will stay here until you come of age?"
Again her lips trembled, and she moved nervously across the room.
"I wish I could be of further service to you," I said at length. "I am
glad that you trust me enough to--to tell me what--what you have told
me. Will you trust me further? Will you tell me all you can about your
father's marriage? Believe me, I will rest neither night nor day until I
have found out whether there is any truth in Peter Trevisa's
statements."
"You will have to stay here--in privacy. You are not safe," was her
reply. "That is, you must stay here until you can escape to France."
"You forget," I replied, "you forget Otho Killigrew's promise. If he
hath laid such information before Hugh Boscawen as to lead him to give
an order for my freedom, all danger is gone."
"You have still escaped from Launceston Castle."
"Yes, but if Hugh Pyper receives Viscount Falmouth's warrant for my
freedom, he will say naught of my escape. Look, Mistress Nancy, let me
serve you."
I spoke like a schoolboy. I thought nothing of difficulties, I almost
forgot the danger through which I had passed. Neither did I realize the
importance of the news she had just imparted. The last ten years of my
life seemed only a dream; I was a boy of twenty-two instead of a man of
thirty-two. The maid had made me long to do impossible things, to
undertake impossible missions. It has been said by some great writer
that a convent school destroys all foresight, all calculation in a young
girl's life. That continuous solitude, save for the companionship of her
fellow-scholars, and seclusion from the life of the world, lead her to
conjure up in her imagination all the romantic scenes which young girls
love, even although she has never heard of such things. That on leaving
the convent she is a prey to first impressions, and longings for love
and romance; thus she never troubles about results, never comprehends
difficulties and dangers.
Mistress Nancy proved this man to be wrong. Of the depths of her nature
I knew but little, of her heart's longing I was ignorant; but she was
constantly revealing to me a rare power of penetration; she was cool,
courageous, and full of forethought. On the other hand, she seemed to
know but little of the world's wisdom. The thought of losing her wealth
caused her no apparent distress; the supposition that her father's
marriage was not legal seemed to bring no painful thoughts to her mind.
The bare thought of illegitimacy would bring anguish unspeakable to
some; Mistress Nancy seemed to reck nothing of it. In this sense she was
a child, ignorant of the ways and thoughts of the world; in others she
was capable of independent and daring action.
"Believe me," I continued presently, "to serve you is the dearest
thought of my life. I owe it to you," I added as if in explanation.
"It would be wrong for you to rush into danger," she replied calmly. "If
you are freed from danger, then I will claim your help again. But I have
friends, and I am not afraid."
I looked into her eyes as she spoke, and I saw that no fear was
expressed there. She did not seem to realize her position, and yet her
words belied her apparent ignorance of the danger by which she was
surrounded.
"You say that your knowledge concerning the Pretender is of importance,"
I said, after a pause.
"Yes."
"Is it right to keep it secret?"
"I do not understand."
"If Charles comes to England, it will mean civil war," I cried; "it will
mean that the whole country will be in turmoil. If the Pretender
succeeds in his design, a reign of ignorance, bondage, and oppression
will curse the country."
"Tell me your reasons for saying this," she replied.
"Are you a Catholic?" I asked.
"I do not know," was her answer. "I suppose so. I was trained in a
convent school, but I have been told that my father hated the Catholic
religion, and I know that he would hate nothing that was good. I am but
an ignorant girl; I think I must have purposely been kept ignorant."
This she said plaintively.
"Let me tell you of these Stuarts," I cried. "Let me relate to you what
Charles I. and Charles II., as well as James II., have done for
England."
I spoke eagerly; I told of the profligacy of the Stuart court, of the
wanton extravagance, and of the corruption of the race. I had proceeded
but a little way in my story, however, when I heard a quick footstep
outside the door, and immediately after an old man stood in the room.
"Is anything the matter, Adam?" cried Mistress Nancy.
"Yes, dear lady," answered he; "Colman Killigrew, his son Otho, and
others are nearing the house."