OF HOW I REPAID THE DEBT I OWED MY LADY
FOR a moment--a moment containing in itself a lifelong memory--we two
stood face to face in a silence broken only by a low cry from Mistress
Grace, as for the first time she caught sight of me.
But no sound came from my lady’s parted lips, only, recoiling from me
in the extremity of her surprise, still with her eyes on mine, she
raised one hand as if to repel me, whilst with the other she pushed the
loosened hair from off her brow. Then, drawing a deep breath, I caught
her outstretched hand in mine, and, shielded by her figure from the
gaze of the lieutenant, I laid my finger on my lips, at the same time
saying in a low voice so that none but she could hear: “Madam, madam,
do not look so at me! It is I, indeed! If you would save your brother’s
life help me to detain these men.” And dropping her hand, I stepped
backwards, for I dared no longer trust myself to maintain my composure.
Even as it was I felt my voice quiver.
To recover myself, I turned swiftly to Mistress Grace, and taking her
hands in mine, I stooped as if to kiss her cheek, at the same time
whispering in her ear: “Madam, I have redeemed my word. He is safe and
on his way to France. Time--time now is everything!”
I felt her hands tighten in my own. “And you--you have taken his
place?” she whispered in reply, raising her eyes, still with the traces
of tears in them, to mine.
“Hush--yes!” I answered, with a warning glance in the direction of the
lieutenant. More than that I could not say, for at this moment the
major returned to the room. He paused in astonishment on the threshold,
and I saw that his eyes were fixed in open admiration upon my lady. I
took a step or two towards him.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” I said aloud. “I do not know whether my
sisters are already known to you.”
“This lady,” the major answered, indicating Mistress Grace, and
speaking to my surprise in very fair English, “I have already met.
Madam, your wife--no.”
I dared not meet my lady’s eyes.
“Your pardon, sir,” I said hastily, feeling the hot blood mounting to
my forehead--“my sister also!”
“So!” he said, raising his eyebrows and making what he no doubt
intended for a bow in her direction. “Then it is for me to beg the
pardon.”
I glanced at my lady. There was a lovely blush upon her face that a
moment before had been so pale; otherwise she showed no trace of her
late emotion, acknowledging his bow with a stately inclination of her
head.
“It is granted, sir,” she answered quietly.
“And as to your intentions, major?” I said in Dutch. “Will you partake
of our hospitality?”
“Well,” he replied, “it seems to me discourteous to refuse your offer,
my lord, and the horses are certainly in ill condition,” he added
apologetically. “What say you, lieutenant?”
The latter’s sallow visage bore a look of satisfaction at his decision.
“I am of your mind, Major Verbrughen,” he answered, the reserve with
which he had clothed himself gradually relaxing.
“Then that is settled, gentlemen,” I said decisively. And turning to
Mistress Grace, I continued in a low voice: “Will you be good enough to
see that these men are served in the north parlour, madam? a bottle or
two of wine--of the strongest, you understand?--and such fare as you
possess. I have that which I would say to your sister--alone. Will you
do this for me?”
She gave me a glance full of meaning. “It is not much that I can do,”
she whispered in reply. “That which I can--willingly,” and she prepared
to leave the room.
Again I addressed myself to the two officers. They had drawn together
in a more friendly attitude while I was speaking and were conversing in
low tones.
“If you will accompany this lady, gentlemen,” I said aloud, “she will
herself attend to your welfare. Meanwhile, I beg that you will hold me
excused from joining you. With your permission I would speak with--my
sister--in private.” And I glanced across at where my lady still stood
upon the hearth, with her eyes ever upon my face.
But for a moment the major hesitated. “As to that,” he said at length,
“I do not know what to say.”
“Sir,” I made answer, drawing myself haughtily erect, “I have yet to
learn that an Earl of Cleeve ever broke his parole. For the matter of
that, the parlour where you sup is but across the hall; by leaving the
door open you may see into this room.”
“Well, well,” the major replied, stroking his chin perplexedly, “seeing
that it may be for the--eh, lieutenant?”
“Precisely,” the latter answered.
“Under the circumstances then, my lord,” he continued, “the favour is
granted. And now--at your service, madam!”
He bowed as he spoke to Mistress Grace and together they followed her
from the room.
And my lady and I were at length alone. No sooner had the last sound
of their spurred heels died away across the hall than the pride which
had hitherto sustained her seemed to vanish. She came quickly towards
me, and I saw that she was strangely moved, and that her limbs were
trembling.
“What is this, sir?” she cried in a voice that thrilled with suppressed
emotion. “What is this that you have done? My brother was in your
power, and yet you are here!--And in his dress--I do not understand.”
“Nor have I time to explain, madam,” I answered gravely. “Your brother
is safe, and the vessel that is bearing him to France should by this
time have cleared the harbour. Once there, he will no doubt be doubly
welcome to James in his exile. As for these clothes,” I continued
humbly, glancing down at the glittering orders upon my breast, “I crave
your pardon that I must wear them yet a little longer. Do not misjudge
me, madam, when you know the truth. Believe only that there was no
other way.”
“I think that we have always misjudged you, sir,” she answered in a
trembling voice. “I think that we never understood--never tried to
understand--until now!” She moved as she spoke so as to command a view
of the open doorway. Then on a sudden she turned swiftly towards me.
“They do not look this way,” she cried in an eager voice. “Come, sir,
come--I will be your guide--follow me and you may yet evade them!” And
hastening to the nearest window, she drew aside the heavy curtains,
only to drop them again with a little despairing cry. But not before I
had seen.
Outside, upon the terrace, motionless as a statue, stood a blue-coated
trooper. The moonlight shone upon the barrel of his short musketoon.
“You see, madam,” I said quietly--I had not moved from my place--“it
is impossible.” And I gazed at her in a kind of wonder. Had it been
another I could have sworn that she was anxious. “Even had it been
otherwise, my lady,” I continued, “I could not have availed myself of
the opportunity. For my honour now has become dear to me, and honour
forbids that I should break my parole to these men. Yet it is sweet to
me also that you should care for my safety.”
“Ah, but--but what will they do to you?” she cried, and I saw a sudden
fear leap into her eyes.
I drew a deep breath ere I replied. “Madam,” I made answer,
“imprisonment is no heavy matter for me.”
“Imprisonment?” she cried quickly, drawing a few paces nearer and
gazing full into my face. “But you are sure that is all?”
I met her glance as bravely as I could. She must not guess the truth.
“Quite sure,” I answered quietly.
Yet still for a moment longer her eyes clung to mine. Then a little sob
escaped her lips.
“After all,” she muttered, her head drooping--two scarlet spots
appearing in her cheeks,--“when the truth is known, it may be that they
will set you free.”
“Yes, madam,” I answered somewhat sadly, “I think that they will set me
free.”
She turned away to hide some sudden emotion. When next she faced me her
proud face was so softened that I stared at her in dumb surprise.
“Mr. Cassilis,” she said in a trembling voice--and I saw that there
were tears in her eyes that she made no effort to conceal--“do you
remember what once you said to me--here in this very room--that you
would one day repay me with tenfold interest? I think that you have
already repaid--and I--no words of mine can speak my sorrow--or my
shame!”
“Madam, madam,” I cried hoarsely, finding at length my voice, “what is
this? I will not hear!”
“You will not hear?” she said in a tone of wonder.
“No, madam,” I muttered. “I would not have you abase yourself for me.”
She bent her head so that I could no longer see her face, but yet her
lovely figure trembled with some suppressed emotion. “You do this for
my brother,” she said at length with a sad little smile, “you risk
imprisonment--disgrace--for him--and yet I may not even thank you!”
I looked at her, and all the love in my heart leaped into sudden flame.
“Nay, madam,” I said gently, “it was for your sake!”
“For my sake--for me?” she cried in a trembling voice.
“Aye, madam,” I answered, “for you--_for you_--and therefore death
itself were sweet!” And stooping, I raised her hand, all unresisting,
to my lips.
She did not speak, only I felt her hand tremble in my own, and one
great sob shook her ere turning swiftly from me she sank into the
nearest chair, and bowing her head upon her hands, broke out into
passionate weeping.
For a moment I stared at her in silent wonder. Then I drew near to her
side. “Do not grieve, madam,” I said in a low voice. “I think--nay, I
am sure--that your brother is now beyond pursuit.”
Suddenly she raised her eyes all misty with their tears to mine. “And
do you think, sir,” she said brokenly, “that I weep alone--for him?”
“For whom else should you weep, madam?” I said wonderingly. And then
something in her face gave me an inkling of the truth. I drew a long
breath and continued: “Almost I could believe, madam, that in your
womanly compassion you wept for me! My lady, I am not worthy of one
tear from such as you. I am not strong enough to ask you to forget--but
only to forgive me that I should cause you grief!” And kneeling at her
side, as once before I had done, I raised the hem of her dress and
pressed it to my lips.
“Not worthy?” she cried. “Nay, it is I who am unworthy--unworthy of
your generosity--of the kindness you have shown to me and mine. Ah, Mr.
Cassilis, have you nothing else to say to me?--no reproaches to heap
upon me?”
I rose slowly to my feet. “Yes, there is one thing that is in my heart
to say, my lady, if you will hear.”
She raised her eyes with a look of startled inquiry to mine; then on a
sudden a lovely colour suffused her face. Yet she did not say me nay.
“It is this, madam,” I continued in a voice I vainly strove to render
steady. “It may be that in a little time I must bid you farewell. Ere
that time comes I would have you know that you have awakened within me
that which had long been forgotten--that which I had all but lost. My
life--the life of the sword--wandering from land to land, every man’s
servant, homeless, hopeless, has not been such that it should inspire
pity in others--or regret to me. Yet until I met you I was well content
to lead this life, to ruffle it with men whose daily life you, being a
woman, therefore infinitely pure, could little understand--still less
forgive. But now all this is changed. For you--you have restored in
me the honour that as a gentleman was mine by birth; and though well
I know a gulf impassable divides our lives, yet for your sake I would
willingly face death itself to save you pain. In that prison to which
I go--believe only in the years to come that, rough soldier though I
am, my fondest prayers were for your future happiness. I may not say
more--I dare not trust myself to say more. I have done. God grant that
this may be the only sorrow that shall cloud your life!”
“Oh,” she cried, rising to her feet with a shuddering sob, “I cannot
bear it! I cannot bear it!” She raised her hands to her throat,
struggling with her emotion. “I----”
There came the hoarse challenge of a sentry from without, followed by
an immediate bustle in the hall as the troopers hastily assumed their
arms. I crossed quickly to a small side window, and glancing out saw a
party of three horsemen advancing up the avenue. Then I turned again to
my lady. She had not moved from her position in the middle of the room.
Motionless as a statue she stood, her hands pressed to her bosom, her
eyes wide with sudden fear fixed upon the open door. At that instant
the lieutenant appeared upon the threshold.
“Verdom!” he cried excitedly, buckling on his sword and brushing some
stray crumbs from off his coat. “It is he! It is the general himself!”
“The general?” I stammered.
“No less,” he answered. “Who would have expected his appearance?”
He drew himself stiffly to attention as the sound of spurred heels rang
out from the hall, and a moment later three men entered the room.
He who came first was a man of most striking appearance. In age he
might have been verging upon fifty, and his erect, martial figure
and clean-shaven, handsome face showed to the keenest advantage in
the uniform of a general of the British army. As if in scorn of
the follies of fashion, he wore no periwig, and his iron-grey hair
clustered thickly upon his temples. Nor had he, so far as I could see,
any decorations upon his breast that could proclaim him to be a person
of distinction; but there was that in his face and bearing that needed
no outward insignia to stamp him as a leader of men. In any company, in
any costume, the man’s individuality must have struck the most casual
observer. Immediately behind him came an officer in the blue and white
uniform of the Dutch dragoons. The third figure was that of Major
Verbrughen.
But no sooner had my lady’s eyes fallen upon the newcomer’s face
than she uttered an exclamation of surprise. Glancing swiftly in her
direction, I saw that her face, that had a moment before been so pale,
had flushed on a sudden to rose red.
“Sir Charles Trevelyan!” she cried.
I knew then with whom I had to deal. His was a name of wide repute--the
Bayard of his time! A gentleman of stainless life and simple faith,
combining in his person all the simplicity of a child, with the
chivalry of a paladin of old. I knew that William upon landing had made
him governor of Plymouth and reposed high confidence in his integrity.
Now he advanced hat in hand and with a faltering step to my lady; and I
saw that his face also bore traces of emotion.
“At your service, madam,” he answered gravely, bowing over her hand.
“Little did I think when last we parted that my duty would ever impose
upon me so unwelcome a task. Being for the present, however, appointed
commander of the troops in Devon, it occurred to me that I might by my
presence spare you such trouble as lies in my power in this unhappy
affair. But,” he continued in a different tone, for the first time
catching sight of me, “who have we here? Where is the Earl of Cleeve?”
“Under Providence, in safety!” I answered quietly, advancing a few
steps.
For a moment he did not speak--he simply looked at me. Yet I felt that
I cut but a poor figure under his gaze.
“Your name, sir?” he said abruptly.
“Adrian Cassilis,” I answered with what grace I could muster, “captain
in his Majesty’s Tangier Horse.” And now that the die was cast I felt
my confidence returning.
“There is something here that I do not understand,” he said slowly,
crossing the room and seating himself beside the table. “Major
Verbrughen, be good enough to explain the meaning of this masquerade?”
But by my faith the latter was little capable of explaining anything.
His jaw had fallen, he stared at me in speechless surprise. Even the
lieutenant’s lean countenance had taken a more melancholy cast.
“Let that be my task general,” I said, advancing to the table, “and
first let me exonerate these gentlemen from all blame. It is a simple
story, and can soon be told. The Earl of Cleeve is, as I have said,
beyond pursuit. For the rest, these clothes I wear should be sufficient
explanation.”
He bent forward and gazed fixedly at me. “And how comes it,” he said
at length, “that you are in this house?”
“I was in charge here,” I answered simply.
His glance wandered from me to my lady, and I saw a sudden light of
understanding leap into his eyes.
“Ah!” he said briefly, and leaned back in his chair.
After a moment’s pause, in which I stole a glance at my lady, to see
that her eyes were fixed upon the general with a dawning horror in
their depths, the latter again addressed me.
“So you, a soldier, in time of war betrayed your trust,” he said
slowly, “and assisted his Grace to escape, knowing him to be the Earl
of Cleeve!”
“For the friendship that I bear to him--yes!”
“You were aware he was proscribed--of the penalty attached to your
offence? You did this--knowingly?”
“And willingly,” I answered firmly.
Again he leant forward and bent his eyes upon me. I trust in that
moment that I bore myself as a gentleman should.
“A pen here,” he said abruptly, pointing to some writing materials that
stood upon an oaken cabinet near.
The Dutch officer who had accompanied him stepped forward and laid them
before him. After writing a few lines in a silence unbroken in the room
save for the scratching of the pen, he raised his head.
“Colonel Zulestein,” he said curtly, “you will see to the carrying out
of this sentence, for which this shall be your warrant.” And he held
the paper out to him.
Ere the latter could take it, however, my lady, who had drawn
gradually nearer to the table while he had been writing, snatched the
paper from his hand. But no sooner had her eyes fallen upon what was
written there than a cry of pain escaped her lips.
“To be shot!” she cried wildly. “To be shot at dawn!” She swayed so
violently that I took a step or two forward to assist her. Even the
general had risen to his feet at sight of her distress.
“Madam, I would have spared you this had I but known,” he said quickly.
“But my duty is imperative.”
She did not answer him--she did not even seem to hear. Only for a
moment she raised her hands to her brow and a single sob broke the
silence of the room. Then she turned and came towards me. And I? I
awaited her approach, my hands clenched, my knees trembling. Within a
pace of me she stopped, and her eyes, wide and fear-stricken, seemed to
read my inmost thoughts.
“When,” she said at length in a low, strained voice, “you did this for
me you _knew_?”
“Yes!”
Still for a moment longer her eyes clung to mine, ere, turning, she
moved slowly to where the general stood beside the table. “Send these
men away!” she said in a low voice, though every word was plain to
hear. The room was very still. For a moment he looked surprised, then:
“Major Verbrughen,” he said sternly, “it would be well for you to make
enquiries at the harbour. I think that you will find there all that
we wish to know. And another time, sir, be not so hasty in jumping to
conclusions! Colonel Zulestein, be good enough to remain within call!”
The three officers saluted with military brevity and left the room.
“Now, madam,” he continued, reseating himself, “you wish to speak to
me?”
Even from where I stood I could see that it was only with an effort
that she conquered her emotion as she drew a step nearer to him.
“Sir Charles Trevelyan,” she said in a low voice, “a year ago you did
me the honour to ask me to become your wife. Oh, by the memory of the
love you then professed for me grant me this that now I ask--spare this
man’s life!”
I stared at her in speechless surprise. This was not my lady, proud and
cold, but a passionate woman pleading for life itself. I think that the
general was equally astonished.
“Madam,” he said at length, “I would that you had asked me anything but
this. With the country so unsettled, an example must be made--there is
no other course to take. For your brother’s landing and for the late
rising here, I fear I can hold out little hope but that your estates
will be confiscated. Believe me, dear lady, such influence as I possess
shall be used in your behalf; but this--this that you have asked is
impossible.”
“Ah, no,” my lady cried in a pitiful voice, “not impossible, my lord,
for with you rests the power of life and death, and in your hands lies
all my future happiness! What has he done that he should deserve to
die? What has he done that you would not have done had you been in his
place--for me? Ah, my lord, my lord, be generous to me in this!”
He gazed up at her, moved I could see by her entreaty. On a sudden he
rose slowly to his feet.
“You ask this man’s life at my hands,” he said quietly. “Why?”
My lady’s back was towards me--I could not see her face. But plainly to
my ears there came these whispered words:
“Because I love him!”
I think that a cry escaped my lips. Yet I stood rooted to the
spot--immovable. But only for a moment. Then I understood.
“Madam, madam!” I cried: “This must not be!” Then, as she turned
towards me, I continued: “I know that in your generous heart you would
save me if you could--that you would fain repay the debt you think you
owe me--but that which I have done I have done without regret.” I would
have said more, continued more, had I been able; but such a wondrous
light was upon my lady’s face that I faltered and grew silent.
“Madam,” the general said after a moment’s pause, leaning forward and
gazing into her eyes--the table only was between--“will you repeat
those words?”
“I love him!” she answered simply. “I believe in him--I trust him!” she
added slowly; and turning to the general, who had again resumed his
seat, she added proudly: “My lord, you have my answer.”
“And yet,” the latter said after a moment’s pause, “after what you
have said, madam--knowing me to be the arbiter of his fate--you can
still ask me to spare his life?”
“It is for the very reason that I know what you are that I appeal now
to your honour,” my lady answered passionately. “To no other man would
I so plead.”
He leaned forward, resting one elbow upon the table and covering his
eyes with his hand. Stern soldier though he was, I could see that he
was trembling.
“Believe me,” she continued in a softer tone, advancing a few steps
nearer to him, “I am sorry that my words should grieve you--should
cause you pain! But in this one matter at least I have cast aside all
modesty and shame. Ah, my lord, in your chivalry, and for the sake of
what is past, will you not pleasure me in this? I am not a woman whose
love would ever change; and holding my secret as you do--oh, be pitiful
to me, and true unto your noble nature!”
For a moment he remained still and silent, then he rose slowly to his
feet.
“There are some men,” he said quietly, “who would demand their own
price for granting your request. I will not take the hand without the
heart.” He paused and cast a long look upon my lady. “Give me the paper
that you hold in your hand, madam,” he added abruptly.
Without a word she laid the fatal order upon the table before him, and
taking it up, he tore it across and across and flung the pieces from
him. Then raising his voice: “Colonel Zulestein!” The Dutch officer
appeared upon the threshold. “I have altered my decision concerning
this man,” the general said briefly. “You, colonel, will remain in
charge of this house until his Majesty’s pleasure concerning it be
known! Captain Cassilis,” he continued sternly, “I grant you your life
on this condition only--that you leave the shores of England within
twenty-four hours. Should you be found within the country after that
time your life will pay the forfeit. Colonel Zulestein, you will see
that this order is duly carried out.” The officer briefly saluted.
“Ah, my lord--my generous lord!” my lady cried, moving towards him with
outstretched hands. He caught them in his own.
“No more, madam,” he said quickly. “What I do I do for your sake.
Myself I cannot forgive for the breach of the duty that I owe my king.
Yet for the future my highest happiness shall be to call myself your
friend.” He raised her hands quickly to his lips, gave one long look
into her eyes, then, dropping her hands, without one glance at me he
quitted the room, and the Dutch colonel followed him.
It was not until the last sound of their spurred heels had ceased that
the apathy that had hitherto held me seemed to vanish. So my life was
spared--saved by my lady--but at what a price! I turned now to look at
her.
She had sunk into the nearest chair, and her face was turned from me.
My eyes wandered round the now familiar room that I should see no more,
and then with a wildly beating heart I drew near to her side. She
neither stirred nor spoke as within a pace of her I stopped, overcome
by my emotion. Ah, how lovely she was--how lovely! Never had my heart
cried out so for one kind word as upon this our last parting.
Though her face was averted, I could gaze unrebuked upon the soft
masses of her hair, gleaming with a golden sheen in the light--upon the
faultless curve of her white shoulders, her exquisitely moulded arms,
and the scent of violets that seemed ever to surround her was wafted
to me where I stood. And I knew that it was for the last time--that I
must go out to again commence the old weary life of wandering that,
in the last few weeks, had faded into a distant memory of the past. A
dream--naught but a dream, yet passing sweet while it lasted! In the
awakening only was the pain.
Involuntarily I shivered as the dreary prospect of the future years
rose up before my eyes.
“Madam,” I said at length hoarsely, “I have lingered to say farewell. I
may no longer stay beneath your roof. What can I say to you? How can I
thank you for that which you have done? What words of mine can be but
inadequate--or aught but poor! What it has cost you to act as you have
done I can but dimly guess! My lady, forget the words that you have
spoken. They shall be as if they had never been--save to be treasured
in my heart through all the years to come.” I paused trembling, and
waited for her reply. Yet for a moment she did not speak.
“But,” she said at length in a low voice, without turning her head,
“what if I do not choose to forget. Are you so sure, sir, that I was
only acting?”
“How, madam!” I stammered. “I--I do not understand!”
“When you leave this house, sir,” she said in the same low tone, “what
do you intend to do?”
“I shall cross to France, madam,” I answered, “and from thence to
Flanders! There is always work there for a good sword--there is always
fortune to be won there--or a nameless grave!” With a quick movement
she rose to her feet.
“You go to France,” she said in a voice that thrilled me--“to France,
whither my brother has already gone! Ah, Mr. Cassilis, will you not
take me too?”
I could but stare at her in speechless wonder. Her face as she turned
it towards me was so radiantly beautiful that the words I would have
spoken died away upon my lips. She noted my confusion with a tender
smile.
“There is nothing further that should keep me here,” she continued. “My
sister is about to wed, and the name of Courtenay will secure her from
any punishment the government would inflict--their services to William
are too well known. But with me it is different. I have rendered my
name notorious, and I am not minded to lose my liberty along with our
estates. Therefore, I shall join my brother across the water. That
is one reason, sir,” she said slowly, and came to a pause. A lovely
colour suffused her face and neck. From beneath her long lashes she
flashed a glance at me that set my heart beating furiously. “There is
another,” she faltered. “You shame me to say it--I--it is--oh don’t you
understand?” And she stretched out her arms to me.
And then indeed I understood. Understood--that God in His great mercy
had given me His best earthly gift--a pure woman’s love. Yet for a
moment I stepped backwards, battling with my own happiness.
“Ah, madam, madam,” I cried hoarsely, “is it so with you? Is it indeed
so? Yet how can this be? You are a great lady, and I?-- God help me!
what am I?”
A wondrously tender light shone in her eyes. The colour deepened in her
face with her sweet yielding shame.
“You are the keeper of my heart,” she whispered in reply; “my
lover--and my king!” I caught her hands in mine and raised them to my
lips.
“Listen,” she continued softly, ere I could find words to speak. “I was
proud and cold to you, dear love, against my own heart’s teaching. I
am proud still! Prouder in your love than ever I was before! I would
rather share your exile than be the richest lady in the land! In
fortune or distress, in poverty or prison--so that I am with _you_,
sir, I care not what befalls!” And at those words of sweet surrender I
hesitated no longer, but took her in my arms, and in a long, long kiss
of betrothal her lips met mine.
“See!” she whispered a moment later, gently disengaging herself and
pointing to the window, where a grey light was stealing into the room.
“It is the dawn--the dawn of hope--and happiness!”
I glanced once at the fair landscape, already lightening with the
coming day, then my eyes again sought the face of the lovely woman at
my side.
“And of love,” I answered in reply. “Ah God! my love! my queen!”
* * * * *
And so it befell that when, eighteen hours later, from the deck of
the _Good Adventure_, I watched the shores of England recede into the
purple mists of evening, my lady sat beside me, her hand in mine. A
soft breeze played in the cordage overhead, from away forward came
ever and anon a snatch of song. The crimson light faded slowly from
the sky--faded--grew fainter--died! The soft summer night enwrapped us
round.
“Sweetheart,” I said tenderly, bending towards her, gazing too to
where her eyes were fixed upon the distant lights in the home she had
renounced, “you will not regret? You will always so love me in the
years to come?”
For answer my lady raised her proud face to mine--with love alight, in
perfect trust.
“Until the end!” she whispered in reply, “and after--in the fuller
life--beyond!”
And what was poverty and exile to me then, for were we not together?
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.