When I try to write that part of my story that should here
immediately ensue, I find the attempt at first more destructive of
the feather than the nib of my pen. If I close my eyes and seek to
live again in memory the hour that followed upon what I have last
related, the result is always the same: I find myself awaking, as it
were, from a kind of inner dream to the outward consciousness of
heavily pouring rain, the rhythmic jingle of bridles, and the
discordant squeaking of wet saddle under wetter boots.
For Ned and I are out in the foulest night of that foul November, and
Roan Charley beneath me makes brave use of his tired limbs to come
the sooner at his own stable. And then the sound of Ned's voice
speaking to his horse in some manner brings back to me a few
incidents of our passing from my Lady Mary's withdrawing-room to this
wet and pitiless night; things which at this time of writing I do not
clearly nor directly recall, but merely remember that I did then
recollect; how His Highness had turned his back upon us, and departed
in company of Mr. Bentinck and Count Schomberg; how Ned had sworn he
would not leave his own house, saying they should hang him in the
morning if they would; how M. de Rondiniacque and I had between us
well-nigh forced him from the house; and how, with the Frenchman's
help, I had gotten the two of us to horse; and how this good friend
had, ere we left, said many things; but not one word of his could I
recall.
So, having gathered out of my stupor the remnants of the nearer past,
I was already again in my mind busily at work with divers plots and
plannings to bring out of this dismal present a glorious and golden
future. This change had been indeed brought to pass; nor was Dame
Fate's change of front tedious of accomplishment; but I feel it is
due to any that reads me to confess at once that the passage from
evil fortune to good was the work rather of the hand of God and the
goodness of men, than brought about by any skill or wit of the poor
maid that would gladly have foregone all merriment here and hereafter
to see once more a smile on the lips of the man she loved.
I have said that the present was dismal; to my companion, indeed, it
could be no otherwise; yet to me the awful gloom of disfavor and
disgrace was somewhat lightened by a little throb of joy, trembling
and intermittent indeed, but growing in force, and of decreasing
interval, as the horses swung, splashing through rain and mud, and
their riders spoke never a word. I was a woman; and I was out alone
in the darkest night of our two lives with the man who to me was all
men since God gave me memory; I had him to myself, to cherish, to
comfort, and, if it might be, to serve; what else should I do, but,
woman-like, yearn over him with bowels of compassion, and rejoice
that I was the angler that should, if it pleased Heaven, fish his
soul from the dark and turbid waters of despair?
At length--"Ned!" I cried, but had no answer; and again, "Ned! dear
Ned!" with no better luck. So I pushed my horse over against his
till our knees came together, and laid my hand on his arm. And then
somehow I knew, dark as pitch though it was, that he turned his head
to me.
"Though you be unhappy," I said, letting of set purpose the catch of
a small sob come into my voice, "you do not need to flout your little
friend. 'T is very like you think it all my fault, but all I could,
since Philip left us, I have done,--all, I would say, that you would
let me do."
"More!" he cried in answer; "you have done far more than I would have
had you do; for I believe you did save my life. If I thank you now,"
he added, with great bitterness, "I do fear my words will lack the
ring of truth."
"Nay," I said, as coldly as I might, in hope to engage his interest,
"there is but one owes thanks for that; and it is not you."
"Who then?" he asked, but languidly, as having little care for an
answer.
"Who but the person," I replied, "in whose sole interest it was
saved?"
"You speak in riddles, lad," he said, and then at once burst into a
very hearty laugh at his own mistake; at which my heart danced within
me to a tune very sweet; for laughter was at least a step in the way
I would have him walk. "My wits have gone browsing like sheep," he
went on. "Life is sweet, I do suppose, and soon I shall thank you.
Even now I feel the savor of it coming back to me. Let us push on,"
he said, and put spurs to his horse.
When I was once again by his side--"Ah!" he cried, "one is a man
again with a horse between his knees."
"I do not know," I replied. "Was it for that you called me lad,
Captain?"
And so for a mile or more we talked. There was indeed but a poor
heart in what gaiety we used, but it served to lead at last to matter
more important. And then I found his purpose was but to escort me in
safety to my father's house, and himself pass on; whither, he would
not say, and at length confessed he did not know. And I vowed in my
heart he should go no further than Drayton, but bided my time. There
followed, in a bad part of the way, a little silence. And now the
rain, for some time slackening, ceased altogether, and a little pale
light from the moon struggling through the clouds, we drew together
again. This time it was Ned did break the silence, and his words
showed me he had begun to review that night's work.
"That was bold juggling you did with His Highness and the sword,
mistress," he said. "Wherefore did you break it?"
"Because I hold men should keep faith, even princes," I answered,
"and I will make him fulfil his word, up to the hilt--I would say
down to the point, which I keep until it is earned." And I felt for
the fragment of His Highness's sword in the place where I had it safe
hidden. And then I drew rein on Charley, catching at my comrade's
rein with the other hand. "O Ned!" I cried, "how am I to do all
this, if you will leave me? Take me and your story to my father, and
among us we shall find a way."
In the pale moonlight I could see his pale face, and on it I read the
bitterness and sorrow of a conflict that he deemed finished.
"Sweet mistress," he said, "you must not tempt me. This thing is the
fault of no man, but the hand of fate is heavy upon me. Since we
were children together, it is somewhere written that only in danger
and disgrace may I meet you. I do believe that in your heart you
know much that, but for what has happened this day to part us, I
would say to you. I will not say it, and because I will not, I must
leave you when I have brought you to your father. Do not urge me
again."
"If all the world cried out upon Philippa," I replied, feeling in my
heart as those must feel who take their lives in their hands to carry
through some desperate enterprise, or to die in default of success,
"and would have her guilty of all the crimes a woman could guiltily
do, I would laugh them all to scorn while you held me innocent and
dear."
"Comfort you might find in my faith," he said, "even as I find much
in yours. But you would not company with me, nor let your name go
with mine in men's mouths; and much less would you wed me before your
name was cleared. It is perhaps the last time we shall speak
together, little Phil, and my despair shall bring me one good thing:
because I have no hope, I will tell you now very fully and frankly
what has been in my mind to say since my weight on a horse's back was
less than is now your own. When I left Oxford to come into the west
in those days of Monmouth's trouble, my tongue was ready and my heart
hot to tell you my love, and, having told, to ask yours, and with it
the sweetest wife in all England. Now, I must tell and not ask. I
say, then, Philippa, that I love you, that I shall love you, and that
I have loved you, for how long it is hard to know, but truly I
believe my love began when you sat in the dust and looked to me for
comfort, stretching up your little arms, tremulous and appealing.
Ah!" he cried, "with what an urgent and tender clinging they held me
as we fled from pursuing Betty."
"I did then think, Ned," I murmured, "that the little horse had
wings, and that we fled together from Betty and all troubles forever."
"It was only Betty then," he answered, with a little laugh that hurt
me to hear.
"And it is no worse than Betty now, dear," I cried, "if you will but
keep me with you. I have but just gotten you again. Three years is
very long and lonesome. Do not leave me."
Our horses were standing, and the moon showed me his face and the
great struggle that there was in him between tenderness of love and
insistence of duty. And I saw the softness die out of his
countenance, and the features grow set in resolve.
"I forget," he said, drawing the reins short through his fingers.
"Let us press on; 't is six good miles yet to Drayton." At which his
horse broke into a canter.
But, when Charley would have followed, I drew rein, kicked feet from
stirrups, flung my right foot over his neck, and so slipped to
ground; let slip the reins, and so sat me down forlorn by the
roadside. So far I had acted of design, to the end that Ned should
return, and I have my way to the full as the one price of proceeding
further. But, when Roan Charley, having twice snuffed at my
crouching figure, set off whinnying in pursuit of his fellow, I burst
into tears wholly devoid of affectation, weeping for the loneliness
that was my own making, and the stubbornness of a man's will that I
could not break. And, the soft thud of hoofs on the wet and sandy
road now seeming to die away with growing distance, I did begin to
feel that the childish weapon I had taken in hand was indeed turned
against myself. To set the coping on my misery, there came a great
and sudden gust of wind, and with it, across the moon, a thick
storm-cloud, from which fell a driving slant of heavy rain, shutting
out at once all sight and sound, as it were with a thick blanket of
cold and turbid wetness; so that, drenched to the skin, I soon
shivered as much from cold as from the sobs that shook my overwrought
body. Now that he could no longer hear my voice, I found some dismal
comfort in leaping to my feet and crying aloud on Ned to come back;
and, even as I called, fell to running with weary and staggering
feet, in pursuit of him I believed far away, until I pitched
well-nigh headlong, not into his arms, for they were stretched wide,
holding a horse in either hand, but upon his broad breast, where I
soon laid my head; crying, as I clutched him by the shoulders, that
he had left me too long, and frightened me.
"Why, Phil!" he answered, "I heard your nag following, and, even when
he drew abreast, it was not at once I knew you were not in the
saddle." And here I felt his right arm move behind his back, to pass
his horse's bridle to the left hand that already held Roan Charley's.
"But when he pushed close," he continued, "and his swinging
stirrup-iron struck my boot, I turned to find the voice and eyes I
dreaded were no longer near. And then, sweetheart, the rain was upon
us, and in the darkness it was little speed I could make returning,
but must needs dismount and go gingerly, for fear of riding over you.
How came he to throw you, Phil?"
Perceiving that alarm had brought back all his tenderness, for here
his right arm came round my neck in an embrace most sweet and full of
protection, I cast to the winds my facile repentance for the trick I
had played him, and answered him thus, using what remnant of dignity
I could muster: "'T was not my good Charley that did cast me off,
Ned. But when I found you would not heed my prayers; when I found
that for some fancy of what the world should say of us you would
again leave me alone, with, this time, perhaps, no hope of a return;
when I thought how bitter three years of waiting have proved for a
half-fledged maid, and perceived how much worse a thing were waiting
without hope or limit for a woman grown, I dismounted and sat me down
by the roadside. For I said I would never return to Drayton to see
go out again into the night, alone and unhappy, the man that has
saved our honor, giving to us out of the abundance of his own." And
I waited for him, but even yet he would not speak. "What! will you
shame me, Ned?" I cried. "Must I even say more? Then I here
solemnly vow that unless you now say to me all--ask of me all that
you would were you now as famous as Marshal Schomberg, and as high in
favor as Mr. William Bentinck, I will not budge from this spot."
This, with voice and bearing no doubt vastly heroical, I said. But,
fearing it yet insufficient, I added shudderingly, in a manner I have
since thought most humorously bathetical: "And I almost die for cold."
Now, scarce even for my children, can I set down very particularly
what followed. But there was much rain, and now two arms about me,
and my head lay where it is not yet tired of lying, while my lover
let flow in words the passion of his love that had so long been pent
and dammed up in his heart. And I remember that when he kissed me,
there came between his lips and mine a patch of mud, cast there
doubtless by the feet of his horse in his flight from me; and also
that we laughed together like children with no sorrow upon them, as
he did try in the dark to wipe it away with his handkerchief, and how
some of the soil did get in my mouth as I laughed. So strong in
memory is often a little matter of this nature that when, not two
days back from the time I sit here writing, being abroad with Colonel
Royston to see some sport with Sir Giles Blundell's hounds, I
received full in the teeth a hoof-shaped clod of earth, I was, for
all the pain and discomfort of it, translated at once from the free
air and pale, sweet winter sun back to that foul and bitter night and
its dear core of love, red and glowing with the fire that shall
comfort and illumine us both to the end of our days.
Now, how long we stood there, how long we talked, and how long we
were silent I do not know. But Dame Nature the stepmother had become
Mother Nature our friend; and wind, cold, and wet were but the veil
she cast kindly to wrap our sacred hour in holier secrecy. And when
again a little light showed from the moon, of course it was the woman
that cried: "Why, Ned! where are the horses?"
I will not dwell on the labor to pursue and catch our nags. The
charger, at length responding to a cry his master used, was caught,
mounted, and ridden in chase of Roan Charley. So I was again for a
while left solitary, but in a state of mind how different! Not now
did I sit forlorn with my feet in the ditch, but tramped cheerily
forward; for I had his promise not to leave me again, but to lay the
whole matter before Sir Michael, and to abide by his advice. For
Ned, notwithstanding the anguish of his disgrace, did in his modesty
set so low a price on the action which had procured it, that I think
it had not yet become clear to him how wholly my very just and most
noble-minded father must be engaged to counsel all things in the
interest of Philip's savior.
It was not long before I encountered all three returning to meet me,
truant Charley grown reluctant and rebellious. And thence into
Drayton village the way seemed short indeed. Only twice did Ned
refer to his misfortune and the anger of His Highness of Orange;
once, in saying it was strange a single night should hold the
greatest joy and the greatest sorrow he had known; and again, when I
said many hard things of the Prince, he would not hear me, saying he
was not to blame; and then he asked me did I note the last words of
M. de Rondiniacque as he bade us farewell. 'T was that gentleman's
opinion, it appeared, that the Prince was in his heart not sorry to
find in my importunity good occasion to avoid the scandal that must
arise from a court-martial held upon an officer whose family was so
well known in the neighborhood at present occupied by his army. M.
de Rondiniacque had added, moreover, that he believed His Highness's
anger much exacerbated by a lurking doubt as to the substantial guilt
of one he had hitherto highly esteemed. All this I must have heard
as one in a dream, and the narration of it now furnished me with
material for the more sober thoughts that occupied the almost
unbroken silence of our passage from the village of Drayton to the
house.
It was now more than an hour past midnight, so that it was with no
little surprise we beheld, through the ill-closed hangings of the
windows, the great hall bright with candles and fire. As he lifted
me, now well-nigh crippled with fatigue, from the saddle, I prayed
Ned to enter quickly and engage whom he should find for a moment in
talk, while I slipped quietly by to the refuge of my chamber. In the
morning I had trifled with the fancy that it were better to be born a
man; now I knew it was best of all to be a woman; and thus I had no
mind, while I could still by some sense of lingering contact mark the
places where my lover's kisses had fallen, to be seen in the garb I
wore by any man or woman whatsoever. And Ned, acting most
comfortably in accordance with my desire, I was soon fast in the
haven of my room, of whose door I did that night but once again draw
the bolt; and even then I do think it was rather from desire of the
food and the posset that she carried, than from any need of her
company, that I admitted Prudence; and of the torrent of questions
with which my ears were assailed as she tenderly waited on me, I
answered few and heeded none. I would have been alone to think of
Ned, and of the change of so strange a sweetness that I now began to
discover in myself. I was indeed in that temper of mind wherein a
maid will find even the object of her thought a hindrance to the
right management of her thinking; and so I got very quickly to bed,
feigning sleep to escape little Prue's chatter, the while I hugged to
my breast the memories of the journey homeward; cherishing the
sweetest fragments for a perpetual possession.
But feigning passed very soon into reality, and the last I recall of
that night is my dreamy watching of Prudence, as she busied herself,
with a bearing of no little pique, in hanging out poor Rupert's
clothes before the great fire, and muttering dark sayings of the folk
that had secrets, and how, if that were the way of it, she could,
nay, would, keep her own to herself.