A Reputed Changeling Part 18

"My dear mother wished me to be with her friends, nor can the King's appointment be neglected, though of course I am extremely grieved to go."

"And you are dazzled with all these gewgaws of Court life, no doubt?"

"I shall not be much in the way of gewgaws just yet," said Anne drily. "It will be dull enough in some back room of Whitehall or St. James's."

"Say you so. You will wish yourself back--you, the lady of my heart--mine own good angel! Hear me. Say but the word, and your home will be mine, to say nothing of your own most devoted servant."

"Hush, hush, sir! I cannot hear this," said Anne, anxiously glancing down the street in hopes of seeing her uncle approaching.

"Nay, but listen! This is my only hope--my only chance--I must speak--you doom me to you know not what if you will not hear me!"

"Indeed, sir, I neither will nor ought!"

"Ought! Ought! Ought you not to save a fellow-creature from distraction and destruction? One who has loved and looked to you ever since you and that saint your mother lifted me out of the misery of my childhood."

Then as she looked softened he went on: "You, you are my one hope.

No one else can lift me out of the reach of the demon that has beset me even since I was born."

"That is profane," she said, the more severe for the growing attraction of repulsion.

"What do I care? It is true! What was I till you and your mother took pity on the wild imp? My old nurse said a change would come to me every seven years. That blessed change came just seven years ago. Give me what will make a more blessed--a more saving change-- or there will be one as much for the worse."

"But--I could not. No! you must see for yourself that I could not-- even if I would," she faltered, really pitying now, and unwilling to give more pain than she could help.

"Could not? It should be possible. I know how to bring it about.

Give me but your promise, and I will make you mine--ay, and I will make myself as worthy of you as man can be of saint-like maid."

"No--no! This is very wrong--you are pledged already--"

"No such thing--believe no such tale. My promise has never been given to that grim hag of my father's choice--no, nor should be forced from me by the rack. Look you here. Let me take this hand, call in the woman of the house, give me your word, and my father will own his power to bind me to Martha is at an end."

"Oh, no! It would be a sin--never. Besides--" said Anne, holding her hands tightly clasped behind her in alarm, lest against her will she should let them be seized, and trying to find words to tell him how little she felt disposed to trust her heart and herself to one whom she might indeed pity, but with a sort of shrinking as from something not quite human. Perhaps he dreaded her 'besides'--for he cut her short.

"It would save ten thousand greater sins. See, here are two ways before us. Either give me your word, your precious word, go silent to London, leave me to struggle it out with my father and your uncle and follow you. Hope and trust will be enough to bear me through the battle without, and within deafen the demon of my nature, and render me patient of my intolerable life till I have conquered and can bring you home."

Her tongue faltered as she tried to say such a secret unsanctioned engagement would be treachery, but he cut off the words.

"You have not heard me out. There is another way. I know those who will aid me. We can meet in early dawn, be wedded in one of these churches in all secrecy and haste, and I would carry you at once to my uncle, who, as you well know, would welcome you as a daughter.

Or, better still, we would to those fair lands I have scarce seen, but where I could make my way with sword or pen with you to inspire me. I have the means. My uncle left this with me. Speak! It is death or life to me."

This last proposal was thoroughly alarming, and Anne retreated, drawing herself to her full height, and speaking with the dignity that concealed considerable terror.

"No, indeed, sir. You ought to know better than to utter such proposals. One who can make such schemes can certainly obtain no respect nor regard from the lady he addresses. Let me pa.s.s"--for she was penned up in the bay window--"I shall seek the landlady till my uncle returns."

"Nay, Mistress Anne, do not fear me. Do not drive me to utter despair. Oh, pardon me! Nothing but utter desperation could drive me to have thus spoken; but how can I help using every effort to win her whose very look and presence is bliss! Nothing else soothes and calms me; nothing else so silences the demon and wakens the better part of my nature. Have you no pity upon a miserable wretch, who will be dragged down to his doom without your helping hand?"

He flung himself on his knee before her, and tried to grasp her hand.

"Indeed, I am sorry for you, Master Oakshott," said Anne, compa.s.sionate, but still retreating as far as the window would let her; "but you are mistaken. If this power be in me, which I cannot quite believe--yes, I see what you want to say, but if I did what I know to be wrong, I should lose it at once; G.o.d's grace can save you without me."

"I will not ask you to do what you call wrong; no, nor to transgress any of the ties you respect, you, whose home is so unlike mine; only tell me that I may have hope, that if I deserve you, I may win you; that you could grant me--wretched me--a share of your affection."

This was hardest of all; mingled pity and repugnance, truth and compa.s.sion strove within the maiden as well as the strange influence of those extraordinary eyes. She was almost as much afraid of herself as of her suitor. At last she managed to say, "I am very sorry for you; I grieve from my heart for your troubles; I should be very glad to hear of your welfare and anything good of you, but--"

"But, but--I see--it is mere frenzy in me to think the blighted elf can aspire to be aught but loathsome to any lady--only, at least, tell me you love no one else."

"No, certainly not," she said, as if his eyes drew it forcibly from her.

"Then you cannot hinder me from making you my guiding star--hoping that if yet I can--"

"There's my uncle!" exclaimed Anne, in a tone of infinite relief.

"Stand up, Mr. Oakshott, compose yourself. Of course I cannot hinder your thinking about me, if it will do you any good, but there are better things to think about which would conquer evil and make you happy more effectually."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand and kissed it, nor did she withhold it, since she really pitied him, and knew that her uncle was near, and all would soon be over.

Peregrine dashed away by another door as Dr. Woodford's foot was on the stairs. "I have ordered the horses," he began. "They told me young Oakshott was here."

"He was, but he is gone;" and she could not quite conceal her agitation.

"Crimson cheeks, my young mistress? Ah, the foolish fellow! You do not care for him, I trust?"

"No, indeed, poor fellow. What, did you know, sir?"

"Know. Yes, truly--and your mother likewise, Anne. It was one cause of her wis.h.i.+ng to send you to safer keeping than mine seems to be. My young spark made his proposals to us both, though we would not disturb your mind therewith, not knowing how he would have dealt with his father, nor viewing him, for all he is heir to Oakwood, as a desirable match in himself. I am glad to see you have sense and discretion to be of the same mind, my maid."

"I cannot but grieve for his sad condition, sir," replied Anne, "but as for anything more--it would make me shudder to think of it--he is still too like Robin Goodfellow."

"That's my good girl," said her uncle. "And do you know, child, there are the best hopes for the Bishops. There's a gentleman come down but now from London, who says 'twas like a triumph as the Bishops sat in their barge on the way to the Tower; crowds swarming along the banks, begging for their blessing, and they waving it with tears in their eyes. The King will be a mere madman if he dares to touch a hair of their heads. Well, when I was a lad, Bishops were sent to the Tower by the people; I little thought to live to see them sent thither by the King."

All the way home Dr. Woodford talked of the trial, beginning perhaps to regret that his niece must go to the very focus of Roman influence in England, where there seemed to be little scruple as to the mode of conversion. Would it be possible to alter her destination? was his thought, when he rose the next day, but loyalty stood in the way, and that very afternoon another event happened which made it evident that the poor girl must leave Portchester as soon as possible.

She had gone out with him to take leave of some old cottagers in the village, and he finding himself detained to minister to a case of unexpected illness, allowed her to go home alone for about a quarter of a mile along the white sunny road at the foot of Portsdown, with the castle full in view at one end, and the cottage where he was at the other. Many a time previously had she trodden it alone, but she had not reckoned on two officers coming swaggering from a cross road down the hill, one of them Sedley Archfield, who immediately called out, "Ha, ha! my pretty maid, no wench goes by without paying toll;"

and they spread their arms across the road so as to arrest her.

"Sir," said Anne, drawing herself up with dignity, "you mistake--"

"Not a whit, my dear; no exemption here;" and there was a horse laugh, and an endeavour to seize her, as she stepped back, feeling that in quietness lay her best chance of repelling them, adding--

"My uncle is close by."

"The more cause for haste;" and they began to close upon her. But at that moment Peregrine Oakshott, leaping from his horse, was among them, with the cry--

"Dastards! insulting a lady."

"Lady, forsooth! the parson's niece."

In a few seconds--very long seconds to her--her flying feet had brought her back to the cottage, where she burst in with--"Pardon, pardon, sir; come quick; there are swords drawn; there will be bloodshed if you do not come."