For several days Edward remained at home, anxiously awaiting every news
which arrived; expecting every time that the capture of the king would
be announced, and, with great joy, finding that hitherto all efforts had
been unsuccessful. But there was a question which now arose in Edward's
mind, and which was the cause of deep reflection. Since the proposal of
sending his sisters away had been started, he felt the great
inconvenience of his still representing himself to the Intendant as the
grandson of Armitage. His sisters, if sent to the ladies at Portlake,
must be sent without the knowledge of the Intendant; and if so, the
discovery of their absence would soon take place, as Patience
Heatherstone would be constantly going over to the cottage; and he now
asked himself the question whether, after all the kindness and
confidence which the Intendant had shown him, he was right in any longer
concealing from him his birth and parentage. He felt that he was doing
the Intendant an injustice in not showing to him that confidence which
he deserved.
That he was justified in so doing at first, he felt; but since the
joining the king's army, and the events which had followed, he
considered that he was treating the Intendant ill, and he now resolved
to take the first opportunity of making the confession. But to do it
formally, and without some opportunity which might offer, he felt
awkward. At last he thought that he would at once make the confession
to Patience, under the promise of secrecy. That he might do at once;
and, after he had done so, the Intendant could not tax him with want of
confidence altogether. He had now analysed his feelings towards
Patience; and he felt how dear she had become to him. During the time
he was with the army she had seldom been out of his thoughts; and
although he was often in the society of well-bred women, he saw not one
that, in his opinion, could compare with Patience Heatherstone; but
still, what chance had he of supporting a wife? At present, at the age
of nineteen, it was preposterous. Thoughts like these ran in his mind,
chasing each other, and followed by others as vague and unsatisfactory;
and, in the end, Edward came to the conclusion that he was without a
penny, and that being known as the heir of Beverley would be to his
disadvantage; that he was in love with Patience Heatherstone, and had no
chance at present of obtaining her; and that he had done well up to the
present time in concealing who he was from the Intendant, who could
safely attest that he knew not that he was protecting the son of so
noted a Cavalier; and that he would confess to Patience who he was, and
give as a reason for not telling her father, that he did not wish to
commit him by letting him know who it was that was under his protection.
How far the reader may be satisfied with the arguments which Edward was
satisfied with, we cannot pretend to say; but Edward was young, and
hardly knew how to extricate himself from the cloak which necessity had
first compelled him to put on. Edward was already satisfied that he was
not quite looked upon with indifference by Patience Heatherstone; and he
was not yet certain whether it was not a grateful feeling that she had
towards him more than any other; that she believed him to be beneath her
in birth, he felt convinced, and therefore she could have no idea that
he was Edward Beverley. It was not till several days after he had made
up his mind that he had an opportunity of being with her alone, as Clara
Ratcliffe was their constant companion. However, one evening Clara went
out, and stayed out so long, carelessly wrapped up, that she caught
cold; and the following evening she remained at home, leaving Edward and
Patience to take their usual walk unaccompanied by her. They had walked
for some minutes in silence, when Patience observed--
"You are very grave, Edward, and have been very grave ever since your
return; have you anything to vex you beyond the failure of the attempt?"
"Yes, I have, Patience. I have much on my conscience, and do not know
how to act. I want an adviser and a friend, and know not where to find
one."
"Surely, Edward, my father is your sincere friend, and not a bad
adviser."
"I grant it; but the question is between your father and me, and I
cannot advise with him for that reason."
"Then advise with me, Edward, if it is not a secret of such moment that
it is not to be trusted to a woman: at all events it will be the advice
of a sincere friend; you will give me credit for that."
"Yes, and for much more; for I think I shall have good advice, and will
therefore accept your offer. I feel, Patience, that although I was
justified, on my first acquaintance with your father, in not making
known to him a secret of some importance, yet now that he has put such
implicit confidence in me, I am doing him and myself an injustice in not
making the communication--that is, as far as confidence in him is
concerned, I consider that he has a right to know all, and yet I feel
that it would be prudent on my part that he should not know all, as the
knowledge might implicate him with those with whom he is at present
allied. A secret sometimes is dangerous; and if your father could not
say that on his honour he knew not of the secret, it might harm him if
the secret became afterwards known. Do you understand me?"
"I cannot say that I exactly do; you have a secret that you wish to make
known to my father, and you think the knowledge of it may harm him. I
cannot imagine what kind of secret that may be."
"Well, I can give you a case in point. Suppose now that I knew that
King Charles was hidden in your stable-loft: such might be the case, and
your father be ignorant of it, and his assertion of his ignorance would
be believed; but if I were to tell your father that the king was there,
and it was afterwards discovered, do you not see that by confiding such
a secret to him I should do harm, and perhaps bring him into trouble?"
"I perceive now, Edward; do you mean to say that you know where the king
is concealed? For if you do, I must beg of you not to let my father
know anything about it. As you say, it would put him in a difficult
position, and must eventually harm him much. There is a great
difference between wishing well to a cause and supporting it in person.
My father wishes the king well, I believe, but, at the same time, he
will not take an active part, as you have already seen; at the same
time, I am convinced that he would never betray the king if he knew
where he was. I say, therefore, if that is your secret, keep it from
him, for his sake and for mine, Edward, if you regard me."
"You know not how much I regard you, Patience. I saw many high-born
women when I was away, but none could I see equal to Patience
Heatherstone, in my opinion; and Patience was ever in my thoughts during
my long absence."
"I thank you for your kind feelings towards me," replied Patience; "but,
Master Armitage, we were talking about your secret."
"Master Armitage!" rejoined Edward; "how well you know how to remind me,
by that expression, of my obscure birth and parentage, whenever I am apt
to forget the distance which I ought to observe!"
"You are wrong!" replied Patience; "but you flattered me so grossly that
I called you Master Armitage to show that I disliked flattery; that was
all. I dislike flattery from those who are above me in rank, as well as
those who are below me; and I should have done the same to any other
person, whatever his condition might be. But forget what I said; I did
not mean to vex you, only to punish you for thinking me so silly as to
believe such nonsense."
"Your humility may construe that into flattery which was said by me in
perfect sincerity and truth--that I cannot help," replied Edward. "I
might have added much more, and yet have been sincere; if you had not
reminded me of my not being of gentle birth I might have had the
presumption to have told you much more; but I have been rebuked."
Edward finished speaking, and Patience made no reply: they walked on for
several moments without exchanging another syllable. At last Patience
said--
"I will not say who is wrong, Edward; but this I do know, that the one
who first offers the olive-branch after a misunderstanding cannot but be
right. I offer it now, and ask you whether we are to quarrel about one
little word. Let me ask you, and give me a candid answer: Have I ever
been so base as to treat as an inferior one to whom I have been so much
obliged?"
"It is I who am in fault, Patience," replied Edward. "I have been
dreaming for a long while, pleased with my dreams; and forgetting that
they were dreams, and not likely to be realised. I must now speak
plainly. I love you, Patience; love you so much that to part from you
would be misery--to know that my love was rejected, as bitter as death.
That is the truth, and I can conceal it no longer. Now I admit you have
a right to be angry."
"I see no cause for anger, Edward," replied Patience. "I have not
thought of you but as a friend and benefactor; it would have been wrong
to have done otherwise. I am but a young person, and must be guided by
my father. I would not offend him by disobedience. I thank you for
your good opinion of me, and yet I wish you had not said what you have."
"Am I to understand from your reply, that if your father raised no
objection, my lowly birth would be none in your opinion?"
"Your birth has never come into my head, except when reminded of it by
yourself."
"Then, Patience, let me return for the present to what I had to confide
to you. I was--"
"Here comes my father, Edward," said Patience.
"Surely I have done wrong, for I feel afraid to meet him."