In telling how we came happily through this trouble of Captain
Royston's disgrace, I perceive that there is from this point a
greater number of those incidents in which, although they are
necessary to the proper understanding of my tale, I had myself no
personal share. While, however, my knowledge in such case is but
second-hand, it is hearsay of the best quality, drawn from divers
witnesses whose testimony I have found seldom divergent. I therefore
purpose in my remaining chapters (now happily few), for greater ease
to the reader, to make of what I know and what I believe a narrative
as plain and straightforward as I may, without further reference to
my sources of information, which would but encumber those efforts at
despatch that must, if my story cannot, earn me a reader's
approbation. Colonel Royston, coming fresh and crammed with law from
the justice-room (he being of late on their Majesties' Commission of
the Peace), tells me that hearsay is not evidence. To which I can
but reply that such as I give will be nearer the truth than much that
he hears on oath.
When Ned, covering my retreat, presented himself before my father in
the dining-hall, he found Sir Michael seated in his great chair by
the hearth; on his one side at respectful distance stood Farmer Kidd,
while on the other, and close to his father, sat Philip.
Now Kidd, much delayed by the foundering of his horse, had come in
about midnight, bringing the first clear news of my safety. He had
found Sir Michael in some disorder, between the pain in his leg, much
aggravated by his vigil, and anxiety for his daughter. Poor
Christopher was like to have suffered in consequence; for Sir
Michael, while filling him with food and drink, rated him soundly for
leaving me behind, and would have had him return at once to Royston.
Philip, whose name and face had gotten him a good mount upon the
road, arriving about half an hour later than Christopher, found him
dulled with fatigue and feeding, and halting half-way between slumber
and tears. My father's mind was soon at rest about his errant
daughter; for, when he learned that Ned Royston had me in charge, and
knew that I was Philippa, he merely said that I could not be in safer
hands, and thereafter addressed himself at once to the consideration
of Philip's story.
"And so, dear sir," said my brother, when his tale was done, "give me
a horse and money, and I will make my way back to France, that I may
keep faith with Royston, and set myself again to serve those that
sent me into England."
"Not so, Philip," answered his father, "for I will give you nothing
to become once more the active enemy of the Prince of Orange. If I
do clip thy claws, thou must stay with me till these troubles are
done. I like not your faith; Gad 's my life! I like not your cause,
for all it was once mine. But yourself I do love. For the sweet
sake of your mother, son of mine, stay with me whom all have left."
"A Drayton, sir," replied Philip, "must do his part, on what side
soever it has pleased God to set him."
"You are right, lad," the old man answered; "and therefore will I
give you neither horse nor money."
Thus it was that upon his coming amongst them Captain Royston had but
to tell the dreadful sequel of Philip's escape. But, between his
very cordial greeting of Ned and the hearing his story, my father,
with a fine discretion, begged Kidd that he would attend to the
Captain's horse, the grooms being all abed. Which Christopher very
willingly hastened to do, preferring a stable and a bed of straw to
the dining-hall and Sir Michael's varied cheer.
His story told, and they asking where was Philippa, Ned answered,
between draughts from a great tankard of spiced ale, that he believed
I was gone to my chamber. On this Sir Michael himself hobbled to the
room where lay my Lady Mary, whence he transferred Prudence from
attendance on her ladyship to the duty she vastly preferred, of
waiting upon me. Alone with Ned, Philip at once declared the purpose
of making his way to Exeter, and of laying before His Highness, in
the act of surrendering himself, the true state of the whole matter.
Sir Michael returning in the midst of Royston's objections to what he
called so useless a sacrifice, the matter was debated among the three
far into the morning, my lover concluding that ill was best let
alone, for fear of worse; my brother, that he had no choice in honor
but to give himself up; my father, that they were both fools, and
that he himself was the person to set the matter in its true light
before His Highness of Orange. And so they separated for the night,
which of them all being in most need of rest it would be hard to say.
But my good father, before he slept, paid a secret visit to the
stable, there leaving orders with Kidd, the sleepy chief of a sleepy
band of agrestic warriors (for the squadron I had led out at noon was
at length painfully gathered in and billeted in the hay-loft), and
with the chief groom of his own establishment, that no man (adding
hastily, "nor no woman neither") should take horse from their door
without his own express command. For he feared that either Ned would
escape him, and so cut this knot of his own generous making; or that
Philip would effect an early start to throw himself, with little gain
to us all, into the hands of his enemies. And so, after threats of
the most terrible, which served at least, as the sequel shows, to
keep his commands from mixing with their dreams, Sir Michael got him
to his bed where, if the just indeed sleep well, he slumbered very
peacefully till the unwonted hour of nine in the morning.
I do not think that poor Philip found much sleep. The choice between
divergent duties, with harm to his family involved in one decision,
to a brave and generous friend in the other, may well keep even the
just awake. The household being much belated, he was able between
six and seven of the morning to let himself out unobserved. On
coming to the stable, however, he found that he could on no terms but
Sir Michael's order be furnished with a horse; not even with that
which had brought him to the house the night before. After some
minutes of deep thought, he hastily penned a few lines on a leaf of
his tablets, which he then tore out and carefully folded, begging
Christopher, as he loved the honor of the house, to keep it unread
and undivulged until two o'clock of the afternoon, when he should
hand it to Sir Michael. But if, as he deemed by no means likely of
occurrence, His Highness of Orange should before that hour honor Sir
Michael with a visit, the letter must at once be delivered. With
which he left the yet sleep-ridden Christopher, willing, indeed, to
do his behest, but so mightily astonished at the mystery in which he
found himself involved, that he failed even to mark the road of
Philip's departure.
The letter, which I hold to be a notable example of my brother's
forethought, I will give here rather than in its place of coming to
light, for the better understanding of Philip's motive and action.
"TO MY DEAR AND HONORED FATHER: Being resolved to do what I may to
repair the great evil I have brought upon Edward Royston, and fearing
hindrance at your hands or his, I have taken myself off while you are
yet sleeping. Finding, however, that you have laid a strict embargo
upon the stable, I go first afoot to the Grange, where old Simcox
will doubtless mount me with the best in his stable.
"I call to mind some words of Royston's, however, of His Highness of
Orange intending a visit to Drayton. Now, although it is more than
likely he has foregone this purpose after what ensued upon my escape,
it is yet possible that some compunction of his own hastiness, or
return of gratitude to Philippa, may bring him to your door. From
the Grange, therefore, I purpose taking the road to Exeter that runs
by 'The Crow's Nest,' whence one may see the roofs of Drayton. I
shall be particular not to leave that point before the stroke of
noon. If, therefore, the improbable occur, and the Prince be come,
or announced to come, to Drayton before that hour, I beg of you, my
dear sir, to fly the old flag from the turret mast; which, if I see,
I will make the best of my way back to you, knowing that you will not
contrive from my plan a ruse to lure me home against my conscience.
"If the Prince be gone to Exeter, and I there get audience of him,
remember that even the failure of my plea for Royston will not injure
your own subsequent representations, but will rather by corroboration
of evidence strengthen them. Your obedient son,
"P.D."
Thus it ran. The Grange, I should say, is the old Holroyd house, and
Simcox, my father's bailiff for the estate.
So much for two of those that sat so late in the hall.
As for Ned, neither joy (if, as I suppose, some joy was in him) nor
grief, of which he thought never through life to be rid, was to
prevail against the oppression of sleep long denied. He slept as the
dead sleep, till long after my father was abroad.
But for a soporific commend me to a decoction of new-found love and
great fatigue of body. It was from the pleasant action of this
sleeping-draught that I awoke to find my chamber bathed in the first
sunshine of many dreary days. And, as I lay with eyes half opened, I
felt in my bosom a gladness answering to the sunshine without. And
searching in my mind for the threads of memory that should join my
life with the day that was past, and tell me the reason why I was
glad, I found that the answer was Love. But a little cloud soon
driving across the sun had also its inward response in my
half-awakened spirit, and I asked myself was there then some evil
thing in this sweet world of mine?
And so I stumbled heavily upon the memory that Ned's love had in its
fulness come to me in the very hour of disgrace. And then I awoke
from a maid floating blissfully upon the sweet sea of conscious
repose to the woman fain to pay the price of love in deeds for her
lover.
Prudence was not far, and I was not long in dressing. Having,
however, more food for thought than use for my tongue, I by and by
perceived that my little handmaid was very ready to make cause of a
tiff out of my silence. This might have passed, for I thought with a
gentle word or two and a smile to turn aside the coming storm.
Nor had I much doubt of success in this, when, after watching my face
a while in the mirror, she exclaimed: "Why, madam, how beautiful you
appear this morning! One would think some great good thing had
befallen you yesterday, rather than a great fatigue. You are vastly
changed, madam."
"Nay, Prudence, be not so fanciful," I cried, marking, nevertheless,
in the mirror how the color rose in my face. "Pray, child, what
difference do you find?"
"It is hard to name," she answered, "but 't is there. Your regard is
large and tender. Your eyes, madam--your eyes hold some secret of
joy."
Here she paused a while, turning her gaze from the mirror to my face
itself. Then at length: "Why, madam, I have it," she cried; "you are
in one night grown to be a woman!"
To hide my cheeks, that would soon, I knew, most furiously glow, I
turned to the wardrobe to take from it the gown I proposed wearing.
But when she saw that it was the finest in stuff, and latest in
fashion of all my slender stock, her curiosity broke out afresh.
Receiving no reply to her many questions, she watched me in dumb
displeasure, while I shaped a piece of black plaister, and applied it
to the little wound that Ned's sword had made on my bosom, for the
gown, being cut somewhat more freely open than I mostly used, would
have left the scratch uncovered from the air. All this was more than
Prue could bear.
"I do perceive," she said, with pale cheeks and tilted chin, "that in
some manner I have offended madam, since she no longer gives me her
confidence; I fear it is no time to ask her advice in a matter that
gives much distress and anxiety to one that she was wont to hold her
very faithful servant." Whereupon she left the chamber very quickly,
giving me no space to appease her anger.
Finishing my toilet alone, I began to wonder what was this mighty
secret with which she had now twice threatened me; and, doubtless,
nothing but my great preoccupation of thought saved Mistress
Prudence, privileged person although she was become, from a mighty
smart reprimand on our next encountering for her petulant conduct.
That excellent dignity of bearing which I believed myself to have
endued, as well as my finest gown, was destined to be spent (if
indeed it were not altogether thrown away) upon old Emmet and a
single waiting-maid. From Simon I learned that it had been thought
well not to disturb the three gentlemen, whom he supposed still
sleeping. Lady Mary, he added, had been much shaken by her
adventures of the previous day, and found herself unable to leave her
bed. So I sat me down alone, and made a meal of most unblushing
amplitude. Since I was a child, I may say, I had never known myself
to lack good appetite, and I now found that so far from weakening my
desire and enjoyment of my victuals, as would seem most fitting in a
young woman of sentiment, the fatigues, emotions, and excitements of
the day before had but set a keener edge to my relish of these, as of
all other good things in what I could but think, despite all
drawbacks, was a very engaging and gladsome world.
Now it was a custom with me to have Prudence wait upon me at
breakfast, arising, I suppose, from a certain loneliness I did use to
feel when my dear father's ailments would keep him for days together
in his chamber. She being this morning absent, and I asking where
she was, Simon soon made it plain that he was not pleased with his
granddaughter.
"Faith, madam," he said, "I cannot tell where she is. The little
baggage grows past my holding. She is as full of mysteries as an egg
is full of meat."
"Nay, Simon," I answered, "'t is no mystery. She spoke very boldly
to me but now, and fled to avoid correction. I make no doubt she is
gone for comfort to Christopher Kidd."
"There 's more in it, madam, than Farmer Kidd," answered Simon, his
old head shaking with the ominous relish of him that justifies
suspicion of evil. "A loaf, a cheese, and a great piece of salted
beef are this morning missed from the larder, and, as I live," he
cried, peering into the great beer jack that stood upon the table,
"who but the hussy should have taken more than the half of the ale
that I drew for breakfast? She did pass through the hall on leaving
your chamber, madam; Christopher and all his men are well fed in the
kitchen, and have but to ask for what they lack."
And here I was scarce able to hold back my laughter. The picture of
little Prudence, so dainty and modest, for all that something of
coquetry was part of her nature, so feeding a secret lover did
mightily tickle my fancy.
"Do not fret for the ale, Simon," I said gaily. "Please Heaven, it
will find its way down a thirsty throat. If Prue be the thief
indeed, I shall know the drinker before sunset. She is a good maid,
and will not long keep a secret from a mistress that holds her in
much affection and esteem." These last words were as much for the
other serving-woman that was by as for Prue's censorious grandfather.
Sending word to Lady Royston that I would gladly know when her
ladyship was willing I should wait upon her, I now retired to my
garden, finding more company in its few remaining flowers, and in the
fresh and sunny autumn air, than in a house but yet half awake. And
I had within me, whether carried from the house, or gathered from the
sweet odors drawn by the sun from the sodden earth, I know not, a
sense that some great thing was coming; that this was but the lull
before our wits and tongues should be again engaged in a conflict for
love, for honor, and perhaps for life.
And I knelt on a little stone bench, warmed with the sun, and prayed
to Him who did make these three best things, that wit might be keen,
and tongue eloquent, to set them high above doubt and question
hereafter.
To me, after it might be half an hour, came Prudence, bearing in a
very innocent countenance an expression of injury most Christianly
endured. Madam Royston, she said, would be vastly obliged by a visit
from me, but she was bidden by Captain Royston to say he had matter
for my ear that was of moment, to be delivered before I should speak
with madam his mother.
"And where is Captain Royston to be found?" I asked.
"He is now taking his breakfast in the hall," answered the little
minx, vastly demure.
"And why was I not informed that he was risen?" I demanded.
"If madam gave order to that effect," she replied, "it came not to my
ear."
This petty vantage of feminine fence had not long remained hers, had
I not been more concerned to reach the great hall than to open a
general attack in the matter of the missing beef and beer. The
better part of the way to the house I ran rather than walked--that
part, I mean, that is not in sight of the hall windows. Within I
found Ned alone, eating his breakfast. A cloud of gloom was over his
face, and, though he rose with great courtesy and alacrity to meet
me, his greeting seemed rather a submission to my embrace than the
clasp of an ardent lover.
It is not unlikely that in a happier hour I had taken this reception
ill, but, thinking I could read his thought, I let it pass, which I
was soon very glad to have done, when his words made it plain that I
had not read him amiss. For a while I pressed him with food, with
questions of what rest he had taken, of his mother's health, and with
other talk indifferent to the issue that yet, as I plainly saw, did
lie between us. But, do what I might, I could bring no smile to his
face; I could see the man held a tight rein upon himself, for all he
could not keep his eyes from taking full account of my person on this
his first seeing me after so many years in the full light of day, and
in my proper garb. And there was great holiday in my heart, for I
knew that I pleased him well; had I not the word both of mirror and
handmaid that I was not ill to look upon? Moreover, those eyes of
his, restrained though they were from all expressive admiration,
could not conceal something that I took to be a kind of hunger.
At length, finding that his discomfort was in no way diminished, I
asked him, speaking mighty small and meek, what it was he wished to
say to me, before I should pay my respects to my Lady Mary.
"I would pray you," he answered, "by no means at this present to make
mention to my mother of--of the matter--I mean, of my disgrace with
His Highness of Orange."
It was only by an effort, it seemed, that the last words could be
uttered. I arose from the seat whence I had confronted him at the
table, dropped him a little courtesy, and walked toward the door.
But, passing behind his chair as I went, I felt my heart so filled
with pity and sorrow that I knew I must either fall into a passion of
tears or speak more fully and closely with him who now bore such
things for me and mine. So behind him I stayed, and, casting an arm
about his neck, "Ned," I whispered, "dear Ned, wilt in no manner be
comforted?'"
His voice shook a little, in spite of that curbing rein, as he
answered me. "Where lies the comfort that I should take, sweet
Phil?" he said.
"'T is unkind in you, dear, to make me speak unmaidenly," I replied.
"I know your woes, but is it, then, nothing that I also share them?
Am I perhaps of no account, for that my love is no new thing?"
"Your love, Philippa," he said, in a voice that was now become very
tender and solemn, "is a pearl of price so great that but yesterday
it was all I asked of Heaven. But shall this jewel be set in a
filthy copper ring? I know, sweetheart," he went on, "that you have
found me churlish this morning. But since I awoke I have one only
thought in my mind, that I did wrong last night, with my honor thus
overshadowed, to tell you of my love."
"Nay," I said, "there was no telling; and there needed none."
"Did I not tell you--" he began.
But from over his shoulder I gently clapped hand upon his mouth,
crying: "Hush, dear Ned! 'T was this way that it befell. Listen,
for all else is what you have dreamed." And I took here the tone and
manner of one that tells to a child the sweetest fairy-tale he knows.
"Two did ride in the night. The two had each a heart, and the heart
of one was sore hurt. Now of the other the heart was well and safely
lodged behind a little secret door. And this door was never opened,
though there was one did know the way to it, and at his knock it had
been wont of old to move somewhat ajar on the hinge. But in that
dark night the heart that was hurt did cry aloud, and--and that small
door did fly open, and now, Ned----"
"Ay, sweetheart?" he said, as I paused; and he tried to look round at
me: but I would not let him.
"And now, Ned," I continued, "the door is closed forever; but the
heart is abroad, and hath no home but here." And here I slipped to
my knees by his side, leaning with hands tight clasped in
supplication against his breast. "My lord," I said, "must even keep
his promise to his handmaid, who will gladly bear all that she may
share with him. But, without his presence and his love, the sun will
be darkened to her eyes all the days of her life."
And so there was an end; for his arms came about me and ended all
strife between us even to this moment of writing.