"I have hope to live, and am prepared to die."
Measure for Measure.
Ralph was bidden to be ready to take his young master home early the
next morning. At eight o'clock the boy, who had slept with his
father, came down the stair, clinging to his father's hand, and Miss
Woodford coming closely with him.
"Yes," said Charles, as he held the little fair fellow in his arms,
ere seating him on the horse, "he knows all, Ralph. He knows that
his father did an evil thing, and that what we do in our youth finds
us out later, and must be paid for. He has promised me to be a
comfort to the old people, and to look on this lady as a mother.
Nay, no more, Ralph; 'tis not good-bye to any of you yet. There,
Phil, don't lug my head off, nor catch my hair in your buttons.
Give my dutiful love to your grandmamma and to Aunt Nutley, and be a
good boy to them."
"And when I come to see you again I'll bring another salad," quoth
Philip, as he rode out of the court; and his father, by way of
excusing a contortion of features, smoothed the entangled lock of
hair, and muttered something about, "This comes of not wearing a
periwig." Then he said--
"And to think that I have wasted the company of such a boy as that,
all his life except for this mere glimpse!"
"Oh! you will come back to him," was all that could be said.
For it was time for Charles Archfield to surrender himself to take
his trial.
He had been instructed over and over again as to the line of his
defence, and cautioned against candour for himself and delicacy
towards others, till he had more than once to declare that he had no
intention of throwing his life away; but the lawyers agreed in
heartily deploring the rules that thus deprived the accused of the
assistance of an advocate in examining witnesses and defending
himself. All depended, as they knew and told Sir Edmund Nutley, on
the judge and jury. Now Mr. Baron Hatsel had shown himself a well-
meaning but weak and vacillating judge, whose summing up was apt
rather to confuse than to elucidate the evidence; and as to the
jury, Mr. Lee scanned their stolid countenances somewhat ruefully
when they were marshalled before the prisoner, to be challenged if
desirable. A few words passed, into which the judge inquired.
"I am reminded, my Lord," said Colonel Archfield, bowing, "that I
once incurred Mr. Holt's displeasure as a mischievous boy by
throwing a stone which injured one of his poultry; but I cannot
believe such a trifle would bias an honest man in a question of life
and death."
Nevertheless the judge put aside Mr. Holt.
"I like his spirit," whispered Mr. Harcourt.
"But," returned Lee, "I doubt if he has done himself any good with
those fellows by calling it a trifle to kill an old hen. I should
like him to have challenged two or three more moody old Whiggish
rascals; but he has been too long away from home to know how the
land lies."
"Too generous and high-spirited for this work," sighed Sir Edmund,
who sat with them.
The indictment was read, the first count being "That of malice
aforethought, by the temptation of the Devil, Charles Archfield did
wilfully kill and slay Peregrine Oakshott," etc. The second
indictment was that "By misadventure he had killed and slain the
said Peregrine Oakshott." To the first he pleaded 'Not guilty;' to
the second 'Guilty.'
Tall, well-made, manly, and soldierly he stood, with a quiet set
face, while Mr. Cowper proceeded to open the prosecution, with a
certain compliment to the prisoner and regret at having to push the
case against one who had so generously come forward on behalf of a
kinsman; but he must unwillingly state the circumstances that made
it doubtful, nay, more than doubtful, whether the prisoner's plea of
mere misadventure could stand. The dislike to the unfortunate
deceased existing among the young Tory country gentlemen of the
county was, he should prove, intensified in the prisoner on account
of not inexcusable jealousies, as well as of the youthful squabbles
which sometimes lead to fatal results. On the evening of the 30th
of June 1688 there had been angry words between the prisoner and the
deceased on Portsdown Hill, respecting the prisoner's late lady. At
four or five o'clock on the ensuing morning, the 1st of July, the
one fell by the sword of the other in the then unfrequented court of
Portchester Castle. It was alleged that the stroke was fatal only
through the violence of youthful impetuosity; but was it consistent
with that supposition that the young gentleman's time was
unaccounted for afterwards, and that the body should have been
disposed of in a manner that clearly proved the assistance of an
accomplice, and with so much skill that no suspicion had arisen for
seven years and a half, whilst the actual slayer was serving, not
his own country, but a foreign prince, and had only returned at a
most suspicious crisis?
The counsel then proceeded to construct a plausible theory. He
reminded the jury that at that very time, the summer of 1688,
messages and invitations were being despatched to his present
Gracious Majesty to redress the wrongs of the Protestant Church, and
protect the liberties of the English people. The father of the
deceased was a member of a family of the country party, his uncle a
distinguished diplomatist, to whose suite he had belonged. What was
more obvious than that he should be employed in the correspondence,
and that his movements should be dogged by parties connected with
the Stewart family? Already there was too much experience of how
far even the most estimable and conscientious might be blinded by
the sentiment that they dignified by the title of loyalty. The
deceased had already been engaged in a struggle with one of the
Archfield family, who had been acquitted of his actual slaughter;
but considering the strangeness of the hour at which the two cousins
were avowedly at or near Portchester, the condition of the clothes,
stripped of papers, but not of valuables, and the connection of the
principal witness with the pretended Prince of Wales, he could not
help thinking that though personal animosity might have added an
edge to the weapon, yet that there were deeper reasons, to prompt
the assault and the concealment, than had yet been brought to light.
"He will make nothing of that," whispered Mr. Lee. "Poor Master
Peregrine was no more a Whig than old Sir Philip there."
"'Twill prejudice the jury," whispered back Mr. Harcourt, "and
discredit the lady's testimony."
Mr. Cowper concluded by observing that half truths had come to light
in the former trial, but whole truths would give a different aspect
to the affair, and show the unfortunate deceased to have given
offence, not only as a man of gallantry, but as a patriot, and to
have fallen a victim to the younger bravoes of the so-called Tory
party. To his (the counsel's) mind, it was plain that the prisoner,
who had hoped that his crime was undiscovered and forgotten, had
returned to take his share in the rising against Government so
happily frustrated. He was certain that the traitor Charnock had
been received at his father's house, and that Mr. Sedley Archfield
had used seditious language on several occasions, so that the cause
of the prisoner's return at this juncture was manifest, and only to
the working of Providence could it be ascribed that the evidence of
the aggravated murder should have at that very period been brought
to light.
There was an evident sensation, and glances were cast at the
upright, military figure, standing like a sentinel, as if the
audience expected him to murder them all.
As before, the examination began with Robert Oakshott's
identification of the clothes and sword, but Mr. Cowper avoided the
subject of the skeleton, and went on to inquire about the terms on
which the two young men had lived.
"Well," said Robert, "they quarrelled, but in a neighbourly sort of
way."
"What do you call a neighbourly way?"
"My poor brother used to be baited for being so queer. But then we
were as bad to him as the rest," said Robert candidly.
"That is, when you were boys?"
"Yes."
"And after his return from his travels?"
"It was the same then. He was too fine a gentleman for any one's
taste."
"You speak generally. Was there any especial animosity?"
"My brother bought a horse that Archfield was after."
"Was there any dispute over it?"
"Not that I know of."
"Can you give an instance of displeasure manifested by the prisoner
at the deceased?"
"I have seen him look black when my brother held a gate open for his
wife."
"Then there were gallant attentions towards Mrs. Archfield?"
Charles's face flushed, and he made a step forward, but Robert
gruffly answered: "No more than civility; but he had got
Frenchified manners, and liked to tease Archfield."
"Did they ever come to high words before you?"
"No. They knew better."
"Thank you, Mr. Oakshott," said the prisoner, as it was intimated
that Mr. Cowper had finished. "You bear witness that only the most
innocent civility ever passed between your brother and my poor young
wife?"
"Certainly," responded Robert.
"Nothing that could cause serious resentment, if it excited passing
annoyance."
"Nothing."
"What were your brother's political opinions?"
"Well"--with some slow consideration--"he admired the Queen as was,
and could not abide the Prince of Orange. My father was always _at
him_ for it."
"Would you think him likely to be an emissary to Holland?"
"No one less likely."
But Mr. Cowper started up. "Sir, I believe you are the younger
brother?"
"Yes."
"How old were you at the time?"
"Nigh upon nineteen."
"Oh!" as if that accounted for his ignorance.
The prisoner continued, and asked whether search was made when the
deceased was missed.
"Hardly any."
"Why not?"
"He was never content at home, and we believed he had gone to my
uncle in Muscovy."
"What led you to examine the vault?"
"My wife was disquieted by stories of my brother's ghost being
seen."
"Did you ever see this ghost?"
"No, never."
That was all that was made of Robert Oakshott, and then again came
Anne Woodford's turn, and Mr. Cowper was more satirical and less
considerate than the day before. Still it was a less dreadful
ordeal than previously, though she had to tell the worst, for she
knew her ground better, and then there was throughout wonderful
support in Charles's eyes, which told her, whenever she glanced
towards him, that she was doing right and as he wished. As she had
not heard the speech for the prosecution it was a shock, after
identifying herself a niece to a 'non-swearing' clergyman, to be
asked about the night of the bonfire, and to be forced to tell that
Mrs. Archfield had insisted on getting out of the carriage and
walking about with Mr. Oakshott.
"Was the prisoner present?"
"He came up after a time."
"Did he show any displeasure?"
"He thought it bad for her health."
"Did any words pass between him and the deceased?"
"Not that I remember."
"And now, madam, will you be good enough to recur to the following
morning, and continue the testimony in which you were interrupted
the day before yesterday? What was the hour?"
"The church clock struck five just after."
"May I ask what took a young gentlewoman out at such an untimely
hour? Did you expect to meet any one?"
"No indeed, sir," said Anne hotly. "I had been asked to gather some
herbs to carry to a friend."
"Ah! And why at that time in the morning?"
"Because I was to leave home at seven, when the tide served."
"Where were you going?"
"To London, sir."
"And for what reason?"
"I had been appointed to be a rocker in the Royal nursery."
"I see. And your impending departure may explain certain strange
coincidences. May I ask what was this same herb?" in a mocking
tone.
"Mouse-ear, sir," said Anne, who would fain have called it by some
less absurd title, but knew no other. "A specific for the whooping-
cough."
"Oh! Not 'Love in a mist.' Are your sure?"
"My lord," here Simon Harcourt ventured, "may I ask, is this
regular?"
The judge intimated that his learned brother had better keep to the
point, and Mr. Cowper, thus called to order, desired the witness to
continue, and demanded whether she was interrupted in her quest.
"I saw Mr. Peregrine Oakshott enter the castle court, and I hurried
into the tower, hoping he had not seen me."
"You said before he had protected you. Why did you run from him?"
She had foreseen this, and quietly answered, "He had made me an
offer of marriage which I had refused, and I did not wish to meet
him."
"Did you see any one else?"
"Not till I had reached the door opening on the battlements. Then I
heard a clash, and saw Mr. Archfield and Mr. Oakshott fighting."
"Mr. Archfield! The prisoner? Did he come to gather mouse-ear
too?"
"No. His wife had sent him over with a pattern of sarcenet for me
to match in London."
"Early rising and prompt obedience." And there ensued the inquiries
that brought out the history of what she had seen of the encounter,
of the throwing the body into the vault, full dressed, and of her
promise of silence and its reason. Mr. Cowper did not molest her
further except to make her say that she had been five months at the
Court, and had accompanied the late Queen to France.
Then came the power of cross-examination on the part of the
prisoner. He made no attempt to modify what had been said before,
but asked in a gentle apologetic voice: "Was that the last time you
ever saw, or thought you saw, Peregrine Oakshott?"
"No." And here every one in court started and looked curious.
"When?"
"The 31st of October 1688, in the evening."
"Where?"
"Looking from the window in the palace at Whitehall, I saw him, or
his likeness, walking along in the light of the lantern over the
great door."
The appearance at Lambeth was then described, and that in the garden
at Archfield House. This strange cross-examination was soon over,
for Charles could not endure to subject her to the ordeal, while she
equally longed to be able to say something that might not damage
him, and dreaded every word she spoke. Moreover, Mr. Cowper looked
exceedingly contemptuous, and made the mention of Whitehall and
Lambeth a handle for impressing on the jury that the witness had
been deep in the counsels of the late royal family, and that she was
escorted from St. Germain by the prisoner just before he entered on
foreign service.
One of the servants at Fareham was called upon to testify to the
hour of his young master's return on the fatal day. It was long
past dinner-time, he said. It must have been about three o'clock.
Charles put in an inquiry as to the condition of his horse. "Hard
ridden, sir, as I never knew your Honour bring home Black Bess in
such a pickle before."
After a couple of young men had been called who could speak to some
outbreaks of dislike to poor Peregrine, in which all had shared, the
case for the prosecution was completed. Cowper, in a speech that
would be irregular now, but was permissible then, pointed out that
the jealousy, dislike, and Jacobite proclivities of the Archfield
family had been fully made out, that the coincidence of visits to
the castle at that untimely hour had been insufficiently explained,
that the condition of the remains in the vault was quite
inconsistent with the evidence of the witness, Mistress Woodford,
unless there were persons waiting below unknown to her, and that the
prisoner had been absent from Fareham from four or five o'clock in
the morning till nearly three in the afternoon. As to the strange
story she had further told, he (Mr. Cowper) was neither
superstitious nor philosophic, but the jury would decide whether
conscience and the sense of an awful secret were not sufficient to
conjure up such phantoms, if they were not indeed spiritual,
occurring as they did in the very places and at the very times when
the spirit of the unhappy young man, thus summarily dismissed from
the world, his corpse left in an unblessed den, would be most likely
to reappear, haunting those who felt themselves to be most
accountable for his lamentable and untimely end.
The words evidently told, and it was at a disadvantage that the
prisoner rose to speak in his own defence and to call his witnesses.
"My lord," he said, "and gentlemen of the jury, let me first say
that I am deeply grieved and hurt that the name of my poor young
wife has been brought into this matter. In justice to her who is
gone, I must begin by saying that though she was flattered and
gratified by the polite manners that I was too clownish and awkward
to emulate, and though I may have sometimes manifested ill-humour,
yet I never for a moment took serious offence nor felt bound to
defend her honour or my own. If I showed displeasure it was because
she was fatiguing herself against warning. I can say with perfect
truth, that when I left home on that unhappy morning, I bore no
serious ill-will to any living creature. I had no political
purpose, and never dreamt of taking the life of any one. I was a
heedless youth of nineteen. I shall be able to prove the commission
of my wife's on which this learned gentleman has thought fit to cast
a doubt. For the rest, Mistress Anne Woodford was my sister's
friend and playfellow from early childhood. When I entered the
castle court I saw her hurrying into the keep, pursued by Oakshott,
whom I knew her to dread and dislike. I naturally stepped between.
Angry words passed. He challenged my right to interfere, and in a
passion drew upon me. Though I was the taller and stronger, I knew
him to be proud of his skill in fencing, and perhaps I may therefore
have pressed him the harder, and the dislike I acknowledge made me
drive home my sword. But I was free from all murderous intention up
to that moment. In my inexperience I had no doubt but that he was
dead, and in a terror and confusion which I regret heartily, I threw
him into the vault, and for the sake of my wife and mother bound
Miss Woodford to secrecy. I mounted my horse, and scarcely knowing
what I did, rode till I found it ready to drop. I asked for rest
for it in the first wayside public-house I came to. I lay down
meanwhile among some bushes adjoining, and there waited till my
horse could take me home again. I believe it was at the White
Horse, near Bishops Waltham, but the place has changed hands since
that time, so that I can only prove my words, as you have heard, by
the state of my horse when I came home. For the condition of the
remains in the vault I cannot account; I never touched the poor
fellow after throwing him there. My wife died a few hours after my
return home, where I remained for a week, nor did I suggest flight,
though I gladly availed myself of my father's suggestion of sending
me abroad with a tutor. Let me add, to remove misconception, that I
visited Paris because my tutor, the Reverend George Fellowes, one of
the Fellows of Magdalen College expelled by the late King, and now
Rector of Portchester, had been asked to provide for Miss Woodford's
return to her home, and he is here to testify that I never had any
concern with politics. I did indeed accompany him to St. Germain,
but merely to find the young gentlewoman, and in the absence of the
late King and Queen, nor did I hold intercourse with any other
person connected with their Court. After escorting her to Ostend, I
went to Hungary to serve in the army of our ally, the Emperor,
against the Turks, the enemies of all Christians. After a severe
wound, I have come home, knowing nothing of conspiracies, and I was
taken by surprise on arriving here at Winchester at finding that my
cousin was on his trial for the unfortunate deed into which I was
betrayed by haste and passion, but entirely without premeditation or
intent to do more than to defend the young lady. So that I plead
that my crime does not amount to murder from malicious intent; and
likewise, that those who charge me with the actual death of
Peregrine Oakshott should prove him to be dead."
Charles's first witness was Mrs. Lang, his late wife's 'own woman,'
who spared him many questions by garrulously declaring 'what a work'
poor little Madam had made about the rose-coloured sarcenet, causing
the pattern to be searched out as soon as she came home from the
bonfire, and how she had 'gone on at' her husband till he promised
to give it to Mistress Anne, and how he had been astir at four
o'clock in the morning, and had called to her (Mrs. Lang) to look to
her mistress, who might perhaps get some sleep now that she had her
will and hounded him out to go over to Portchester about that silk.
Nothing was asked of this witness by the prosecution except the time
of Mr. Archfield's return. The question of jealousy was passed
over.
Of the pond apparition nothing was said. Anne had told Charles of
it, but no one could have proved its identity but Sedley, and his
share in it was too painful to be brought forward. Three other
ghost seers were brought forward: Mrs. Fellowes's maid, the sentry,
and the sexton; but only the sexton had ever seen Master Perry
alive, and he would not swear to more than that it was something in
his likeness; the sentry was already bound to declare it something
unsubstantial; and the maid was easily persuaded into declaring that
she did not know what she had seen or whether she had seen anything.
There only remained Mr. Fellowes to bear witness of his pupil's
entire innocence of political intrigues, together with a voluntary
testimony addressed to the court, that the youth had always appeared
to him a well-disposed but hitherto boyish lad, suddenly sobered and
rendered thoughtful by a shock that had changed the tenor of his
mind.
Mr. Baron Hatsel summed up in his dreary vacillating way. He told
the gentlemen of the jury that young men would be young men,
especially where pretty wenches were concerned, and that all knew
that there was bitterness where Whig and Tory were living nigh
together. Then he went over the evidence, at first in a tone
favourable to the encounter having been almost accidental, and the
stroke an act of passion. But he then added, it was strange, and he
did not know what to think of these young sparks and the young
gentlewoman all meeting in a lonely place when honest folks were
abed, and the hiding in the vault, and the state of the clothes were
strange matters scarce agreeing with what either prisoner or witness
said. It looked only too like part of a plot of which some one
should make a clean breast. On the other hand, the prisoner was a
fine young gentleman, an only son, and had been fighting the Turks,
though it would have been better to have fought the French among his
own countrymen. He had come ingenuously forward to deliver his
cousin, and a deliberate murderer was not wont to be so generous,
though may be he expected to get off easily on this same plea of
misadventure. If it was misadventure, why did he not try to do
something for the deceased, or wait to see whether he breathed
before throwing him into this same pit? though, to be sure, a lad
might be inexperienced. For the rest, as to these same sights of
the deceased or his likeness, he (the judge) was no believer in
ghosts, though he would not say there were no such things, and the
gentlemen of the jury must decide whether it was more likely the
poor youth was playing pranks in the body, or whether he were
haunting in the spirit those who had most to do with his untimely
end. This was the purport, or rather the no-purport, of the charge.
The jury were absent for a very short time, and as it leaked out
afterwards, their intelligence did not rise above the idea that the
young gentleman was thick with they Frenchies who wanted to bring in
murder and popery, warming-pans and wooden shoes. He called stoning
poultry a trifle, so of what was he not capable? Of course he
spited the poor young chap, and how could the fact be denied when
the poor ghost had come back to ask for his blood?
So the awful suspense ended with 'Guilty, my Lord.'
"Of murder or manslaughter?"
"Of murder."
The prisoner stood as no doubt he had faced Turkish batteries.
The judge asked the customary question whether he had any reason to
plead why he should not be condemned to death.
"No, my lord. I am guilty of shedding Peregrine Oakshott's blood,
and though I declare before God and man that I had no such purpose,
and it was done in the heat of an undesigned struggle, I hated him
enough to render the sentence no unjust one. I trust that God will
pardon me, if man does not."
The gentlemen around drew the poor old father out of the court so as
not to hear the final sentence, and Anne, half stunned, was taken
away by her uncle, and put into the same carriage with him. The old
man held her hands closely and could not speak, but she found voice,
"Sir, sir, do not give up hope. God will save him. I know what I
can do. I will go to Princess Anne. She is friendly with the King
now. She will bring me to tell him all."
Hurriedly she spoke, her object, as it seemed to be that of every
one, to keep up such hope and encouragement as to drown the terrible
sense of the actual upshot of the trial. The room at the George was
full in a moment of friends declaring that all would go well in the
end, and consulting what to do. Neither Sir Philip nor Dr. Woodford
could be available, as their refusal to take the oaths to King
William made them marked men. The former could only write to the
Imperial Ambassador, beseeching him to claim the prisoner as an
officer of the Empire, though it was doubtful whether this would be
allowed in the case of an Englishman born. Mr. Fellowes undertook
to be the bearer of the letter, and to do his best through
Archbishop Tenison to let the King know the true bearings of the
case. Almost in pity, to spare Anne the misery of helpless waiting,
Dr. Woodford consented to let her go under his escort, starting very
early the next morning, since the King might immediately set off for
the army in Holland, and the space was brief between condemnation
and execution.
Sir Edmund proposed to hurry to Carisbrooke Castle, being happily on
good terms with that fiery personage, Lord Cutts, the governor of
the Isle of Wight as well as a favoured general of the King, whose
intercession might do more than Princess Anne's. Moreover, a
message came from old Mr. Cromwell, begging to see Sir Edmund. It
was on behalf of Major Oakshott, who entreated that Sir Philip might
be assured of his own great regret at the prosecution and the
result, and his entire belief that the provocation came from his
unhappy son. Both he and Richard Cromwell were having a petition
for pardon drawn up, which Sir Henry Mildmay and almost all the
leading gentlemen of Hampshire of both parties were sure to sign,
while the sheriff would defer the execution as long as possible.
Pardons, especially in cases of duelling, had been marketable
articles in the last reigns, and there could not but be a sigh for
such conveniences. Sir Philip wanted to go at once to the jail,
which was very near the inn, but consented on strong persuasion to
let his son-in-law precede him.
Anne longed for a few moments to herself, but durst not leave the
poor old man, who sat holding her hand, and at each interval of
silence saying how this would kill the boy's mother, or something
equally desponding, so that she had to talk almost at random of the
various gleams of hope, and even to describe how the little Duke of
Gloucester might be told of Philip and sent to the King, who was
known to be very fond of him. It was a great comfort when Dr.
Woodford came and offered to pray with them.
By and by Sir Edmund returned, having been making arrangements for
Charles's comfort. Ordinary prisoners were heaped together and
miserably treated, but money could do something, and by application
to the High Sheriff, permission had been secured for Charles to
occupy a private room, on a heavy fee to the jailor, and for his
friends to have access to him, besides other necessaries, purchased
at more than their weight in gold. Sir Edmund brought word that
Charles was in good heart; sent love and duty to his father, whom he
would welcome with all his soul, but that as Miss Woodford was--in
her love and bravery--going so soon to London, he prayed that she
might be his first visitor that evening.
There was little more to do than to cross the street, and Sir Edmund
hurried her through the flagged and dirty yard, and the dim, foul
hall, filled with fumes of smoke and beer, where melancholy debtors
held out their hands, idle scapegraces laughed, heavy degraded faces
scowled, and evil sounds were heard, up the stairs to a nail-studded
door, where Anne shuddered to hear the heavy key turned by the
coarse, rude-looking warder, only withheld from insolence by the
presence of a magistrate. Her escort tarried outside, and she saw
Charles, his rush-light candle gleaming on his gold lace as he wrote
a letter to the ambassador to be forwarded by his father.
He sprang up with outstretched arms and an eager smile. "My brave
sweetheart! how nobly you have done. Truth and trust. It did my
heart good to hear you."
Her head was on his shoulder. She wanted to speak, but could not
without loosing the flood of tears.
"Faith entire," he went on; "and you are still striving for me."
"Princess Anne is--" she began, then the choking came.
"True!" he said. "Come, do not expect the worst. I have not made
up my mind to that! If the ambassador will stir, the King will not
be disobliging, though it will probably not be a free pardon, but
Hungary for some years to come--and you are coming with me."
"If you will have one who might be--may have been--your death. Oh,
every word I said seemed to me stabbing you;" and the tears would
come now.
"No such thing! They only showed how true my love is to God and me,
and made my heart swell with pride to hear her so cheering me
through all."
His strength seemed to allow her to break down. She had all along
had to bear up the spirits of Sir Philip and Lady Archfield, and
though she had struggled for composure, the finding that she had in
him a comforter and support set the pent-up tears flowing fast, as
he held her close.
"Oh, I did not mean to vex you thus!" she said.
"Vex! no indeed! 'Tis something to be wept for. But cheer up, Anne
mine. I have often been in far worse plights than this, when I have
ridden up in the face of eight big Turkish guns. The balls went
over my head then, by God's good mercy. Why not the same now? Ay!
and I was ready to give all I had to any one who would have put a
pistol to my head and got me out of my misery, jolting along on the
way to the Iron Gates. Yet here I am! Maybe the Almighty brought
me back to save poor Sedley, and clear my own conscience, knowing
well that though it does not look so, it is better for me to die
thus than the other way. No, no; 'tis ten to one that you and the
rest of you will get me off. I only meant to show you that
supposing it fails, I shall only feel it my due, and much better for
me than if I had died out there with it unconfessed. I shall try to
get them all to feel it so, and, after all, now the whole is out, my
heart feels lighter than it has done these seven years. And if I
could only believe that poor fellow alive, I could almost die
content, though that sounds strange. It will quiet his poor
restless spirit any way."
"You are too brave. Oh! I hoped to come here to comfort you, and I
have only made you comfort me."
"The best way, sweetest. Now, I will seal and address this letter,
and you shall take it to Mr. Fellowes to carry to the ambassador."
This gave Anne a little time to compose herself, and when he had
finished, he took the candle, and saying, "Look here," he held it to
the wall, and they read, scratched on the rough bricks, "Alice
Lisle, 1685. This is thankworthy."
"Lady Lisle's cell! Oh, this is no good omen!"
"I call it a goodly legacy even to one who cannot claim to suffer
wrongfully," said Charles. "There, they knock--one kiss more--we
shall meet again soon. Don't linger in town, but give me all the
days you can. Yes, take her back, Sir Edmund, for she must rest
before her journey. Cheer up, love, and do not lie weeping all
night, but believe that your prayers to God and man must prevail one
way or another."