FATE'S SEQUEL.
"All precious things discovered late,
To those that seek them issue forth;
For love in sequel works with Fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth."
TENNYSON, _The Day Dream._
Harrison led the way down the path across the heather. Soon the narrow
lane grew deeper, and the sand softer under their feet. The tiny glen
was dark, and Harrison turned, and offered his hand to his companion;
but she shook her head in silent refusal, and they plodded on, till
suddenly the dark banks broke away, and they came out on the empty
moonlit beach. The firm shining sands seemed to stretch away to a
limitless distance, the far-off sea was only vaguely visible and no
sound came up from it. Down across the wide strand the silent pair
rapidly passed, and then Richard halted.
"Here the water begins," he said. "It is too shallow for the boat to
come nearer. You must let me carry you to it."
He knew with pride that he had made his tone as cold and formal as her
own.
"There is no need," protested Audrey. "I have often waded here,
gathering cockles."
"Ay," he answered; "but not when starting on a sea voyage;" and without
further question he stooped and lifted her in his arms, and waded in.
A wild feeling of triumph possessed him. So of old might some
sea-rover have felt, bearing off his prey from that very shore. His
sweetheart was in his arms, he alone could save her from her pursuers;
surely her icy pride would melt now. So sweet, so cold, so near him,
and yet so far off!
Slowly he splashed forward, the water deepening as he went. Audrey
said no word, her little hand rested on his shoulder, she did not move.
It seemed to him all too soon, breathless though he was, that they
reached the boat, and old Job lifted the precious burden over the side.
Harrison climbed, dripping, after, and shook himself like a water-dog,
before venturing to approach his lady. Then he took her hand, and led
her to the stern of the boat, where he had prepared a heap of cloaks
and sails.
"We must do our best to shelter you from the night dew," he said, as he
folded the cloak round her, and made an awning of the sails over her
head.
So warm and cosy was the little nest, so lulling the slow rocking of
the boat, and her lazy creak as she leant over, that Audrey suddenly
discovered she was unable to keep her eyes open, and before she could
utter the formal speech of thanks she had been conning, she was fast
asleep.
She awoke to find the darkness past, and gay sunlight dancing on the
ripples, and gilding the brown sail and weather-beaten mast. All was
blue around her, a clean pale blue, like a world fresh made, that had
not yet bloomed into its full colour. Pale blue was the sky, pale blue
the sea, only fringed to the south by a narrow line of gold that showed
the sand-hills that hid her home. Close above her stood Harrison,
keeping the swaying tiller steady with his knee, a handsome, soldierly
figure, in spite of his rough clothes and great sea-boats.
At the other end of the boat the old fisherman was busy with his lines,
only laying them down now and again to give a stroke with one oar or
the other, and keep the boat's head steady.
As Audrey sat up, Harrison's grave face broke into a smile. Who could
think of misunderstandings, regrets, even of repentance, on a spring
morning, with a face as fair as the spring dawning on him?
"Good morrow," he said; "you have slept sound."
"Indeed," she answered, "I feel as though I had slept the clock round.
What time is it, and what day is it?"
"'Tis Saturday, and our ship will soon be in sight, for the sun is
high."
"I am indeed a sluggard!" cried Audrey, looking at the little watch
that hung in a silver ball at her waist. "'Tis eight o'clock."
"And Job hath no provisions, save bread and cheese and a flagon of
small beer," said Harrison, regretfully. "I would I could have been a
better caterer, but my flight was so sudden."
He knelt with one arm over the tiller while he rummaged out the
fisherman's store. He thanked the chance that let him serve her on his
knees, and lay his offerings at her feet, when, poor fellow, he would
so gladly have laid his heart, would she but give leave.
She ate, and drank, and laughed. The colour came back to her cheeks,
and the light to her eyes. The sunbeams caught her disordered curls,
and played hide and seek in the golden web. Her voice was cool, but
not icy, as on the previous evening, only cool, and fresh, and dainty,
like the cool air that came in delicate wafts across the water.
But time was flying, flying cruelly fast, he knew. Soon the sails of
the _Good Hope_ would be in sight, and never again might he kneel so
near his lady. Now or never, before this last chance was snatched from
him, he must tell his tale.
"Madam," he began, "this is, perhaps, the last time I may have a word
with you in private. Will you give me leave to speak, and entreat your
pardon for much that has passed?"
Audrey's head was turned away; it rose a little more proudly, but no
answer came for a minute. Then, "I think you have need to ask it,"
came in muffled tones.
He paused, doubtful what to do. His line of action ought to depend on
her state of mind, and who could guess what that might be? She could
hardly fail to be indignant with Mr. Marshman, but on which of the many
counts was she angry with him? He had argued over the case so often in
his mind that he had become desperate of any conclusion, and out of his
very desperation a wayward hope began to whisper that possibly, just
possibly, as she now knew through Mr. Marshman of the marriage
contract, she might even accuse him of carelessness, and hold him to be
but a laggard in love. Was she now punishing him for having exposed
her to Mr. Marshman's misapprehension, or was she merely troubled and
cast down? Who could guess anything while she kept her head turned
stiffly away. A wild desire seized him to take her by her pretty
shoulders, and turn her round.
"Will you not let me see your face?" he pleaded. "What prisoner would
dare sue for mercy if the judge turned his back?"
His voice was not used to the tone of deference, even when he entreated
there was something of command in it. He leaned over, and took her
hand, and slowly she turned her head towards him.
"I know not," he said gently, "what Mr. Marshman may have dared to say
to you, but I do entreat of you to believe whatever he said was without
my knowledge or leave to meddle with matters of such privacy. I knew
not that he understood anything of my matters; but I have to ask your
pardon for having spoken unadvisedly in his presence."
"I am glad he was not your ambassador," answered Audrey, rather coldly.
"And more I have to confess," he continued. "I see now how cowardly a
thing I did in hiding in your house, and bringing you into all this
peril--for that also I do most heartily ask your forgiveness."
"It was by my asking you came to my house," she answered, in rather a
lofty tone. "If I chose to run risks, it was by mine own will; in that
matter there is not anything to pardon."
"You are very generous," he answered, so humbly that Audrey was
disarmed, and turned to him with all her old sweetness.
"We women are forbid to fight or to speak for our country," she said.
"You will not grudge us the right to suffer somewhat for her liberties."
He looked at her with tender admiration. "Methinks you are on the road
to be one of Mr. Rogers's disciples," he said.
She laughed, and for a moment forgot her coldness. "Ay, 'tis perilous
to spend so many hours with a madman; very like 'tis catching."
"I was of Mr. Rogers's mind in some things before I even knew him,"
said Richard. "May I tell you how I learned to be of his mind
concerning the liberties of women?"
"I knew not any one else preached such doctrines," she said.
"I learned them from a little maid who fell once into a lily pool," he
answered. "I learned from the thought of her to honour all women after
another fashion than that which I saw common. I will not boast 'twas
constancy; very like it was because so few children came to our house,
save my uncle's babes, who died ere they left their nurse's arms; but
the memory of that little maid abode with me, and sat with me by camp
fires, and kept me company on marches, and the desire to be fit for her
company taught me some of the things which Mr. Rogers dares to preach.
And she abode with me till last Sunday, and then she vanished, because
I knew then that the desire of mine eyes was no more a little maid, but
a woman grown."
"Oh," she cried, "this is, indeed, madness, for it was by chance only
that you came to Inglethorpe."
"Ay, it seems as though it were chance on the face of it. But that
kindly chance, perchance the beckoning of the dead hand, hath but
hastened the meeting I sought, for I was on my way to seek you in the
plantations. Here is my witness," he continued, taking a letter from
his breast. "When I fled from London I carried this with me, that it
might be mine advocate with your father. It seemed to me scarce
honourable to show it you in England, and force myself on you after
such a fashion; but seeing the turn things have taken, it is your right
to see it. It will at least bear me witness that this chance is but
the sequel of what hath gone before."
The letter bore the address: "To my loving friend, Major-General
Harrison. These----" It was sealed with the Perrient coat-of-arms.
The letter from the dead man to his dead friend had come back.
A sudden memory flashed across Audrey. "You say all this because your
minister bade you," she cried.
"Do you, indeed, think me so docile?" he answered, with a laugh that
was almost angry.
"I know not what to think of any one," she answered piteously, while
two great tears ran down her face.
"Think nothing, save that I desire to live and die for you," he cried.
"Audrey, when I parted from your grandfather, he gave me leave to come
again, and endeavour to win your heart. But when I would have come, I
heard you were departed to New England. That letter is two years
old--tell me not that my day of grace is past! And yet, if you bid me
tear the letter, I will upon mine honour strive to guard you as a
brother on this journey. But there is a friend that sticketh closer
than a brother, and to be such a friend to you, I will serve as many
years as Jacob served for a wife. May I carry this letter to your
father? You will not bid me tear it?"
A rainbow smile flickered over Audrey's face. "'Tis no use to tear
it," she said. "I have here its fellow;" and she pulled out her letter
and held it to him.
He gazed at it, dumb with surprise. "You have its fellow!" he said at
last. "You knew all! And while I was tormenting myself to keep
silence, I was but playing the part of a laggard wooer!"
"I only found the letter at Hunstanton the other night," she said.
"And you kept it! You were as kind to me as before! You were not
unwilling to hear of the design! Audrey, you know you have all my
heart; I can be content with nothing less than yours in return."
"I fear you are no honest man," she murmured. "You stole it before
ever you asked my leave."
His arm was round her. "My dear heart, believe that I have waited half
my lifetime for this kiss."
"Oh, Dick! Remember old Job! He will be making a mock of us!"
"Tush! he is busy with his oars and lines; he heeds us not!"
"Luff, sir, luff!" shouted the maligned fisherman, with a twinkle in
his eye. "Here be the _Good Hope_ a bearing down on us. 'Tis a pretty
name, the _Good Hope_, and I hope as she'll bring 'ee luck."
"Thank you, friend; methinks few men can have such good hope to carry
on a voyage as I! There is Mr. Rogers signalling with his hat. Wave
your handkerchief, and show him we are here! And, sweetheart," he
whispered, "Mr. Rogers must make us one as soon as we land in
Rotterdam, that you may despatch the bride ribbons to good Mistress
Joyce by the ship on her return."
And this was how Richard Harrison learned that he might still follow
the path marked out for him by his Lost Leader, and received his bride
from the hand that had cherished his childhood. And with the
knowledge, the hopes of his childhood came back to him, and he gathered
faith that as the wanderings of his dark days had brought him to the
door of his love, so the dark ways of earth may be but the shortest
road to lead the pilgrim to the Celestial City, if but he follow close
his Divine Leader.
NOTES.
PROLOGUE.
1. The interview between the king and Major Harrison is described by
Anthony Wood.
2. There is no historical evidence of Major Harrison adopting a
nephew; but as none of his own children lived to grow up, while several
families in the United States of America believe they can trace their
descent to this, "the most single-minded of the Regicides," the
existence of an adopted son is suggested as a theory to meet the
difficulty.
CHAPTER I.
1. The history of Major-General Harrison's life is founded on "The
Life of Thomas Harrison," by Charles H. Firth, Proc. Amer. Antiq. Soc.,
printed at Worcester, Mass., 1893.
2. For Prince Rupert's acquaintance with Harrison, see _Moderate
Intelligencer_; Friday, September 12, 1645.
CHAPTER III.
1. John Rogers's conversations throughout the book are taken almost
verbally from his sermons and letters printed in "Life and Opinions of
a Fifth-Monarchy Man," by Rev. E. Rogers.
2. The account of the last words and death of Harrison are taken from
a contemporary pamphlet: "Rebels no Saints," by a Person of Quality,
London, 1661.
CHAPTER V.
The ghost of Inglethorpe Hall is well known in Norfolk tradition.
CHAPTER XI.
The thatcher Mayor of Castle Rising and the unique jail of the little
town were matters of local celebrity.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.