A Reputed Changeling Part 33

"Oh, I can believe it only too truly! I have seen him twice before.

I thought you said you had."

"Merely in dreams, and that is bad enough."

"Are you sure? for I was up and awake."

"Are _you_ sure? I might ask again. I was asleep in bed, and glad enough to shake myself awake. Where were you?"

"Once on Hallowmas Eve, looking from the window at Whitehall; once when waiting with the Queen under the wall of Lambeth Church, on the night of our flight."

"Did others see him then?"

"I was alone the first time. The next time when he flitted across the light, no one else saw him; but they cried out at my start. Why should he appear except to us?"

"That is true," muttered Charles.

"And oh, sir, those two times he looked as he did in life--not ghastly as now. There can be no doubt now that--"

"What, sweet Anne?"

"Sir, I must tell you! I could bear it no longer, and I _did_ consult the Bishop of Bath and Wells."

"Any more?" he asked in a somewhat displeased voice.

"No one, not a soul, and he is as safe as any of the priests here; he regards a confession in the same way. Mr. Archfield, forgive me.

He seemed divinely sent to me on that All Saints' day! Oh, forgive me!" and tears were in her eyes.

"He is Dr. Ken--eh? I remember him. I suppose he is as safe as any man, and a woman must have some relief. You have borne enough indeed," said Charles, greatly touched by her tears. "What did he say?"

"He asked, was I certain of the--death," said she, bringing out the word with difficulty; "but then I had only seen _it_ at Whitehall; and these other appearances, in such places too, take away all hope that it is otherwise!"

"a.s.suredly," said Charles; "I had not the least doubt at the moment.

I know I ran my sword through his body, and felt a jar that I believe was his backbone," he said with a shudder, "and he fell p.r.o.ne and breathless; but since I have seen more of fencing, and heard more of wounds, the dread has crossed me that I acted as an inexperienced lad, and that I ought to have tried whether the life was in him, or if he could be recovered. If so, I slew him twice, by launching him into that pit. G.o.d forgive me!"

"Is it so deep?" asked Anne, shuddering. "I know there is a sort of step at the top; but I always shunned the place, and never looked in."

"There are two or three steps at the top, but all is broken away below. Sedley and I once threw a ball down, and I am sure it dropped to a depth down which no man could fall and _live_. I believe there once were underground pa.s.sages leading to the harbour on one hand, and out to Portsdown Hill on the other, but that the communication was broken away and the openings destroyed when Lord Goring was governor of Portsmouth, to secure the castle. Be that as it may, he could not have been living after he reached that floor.

I heard the thud, and the jingle of his sword, and it will haunt me to my dying day."

"And yet you never intended it. You did it in defence of me. You did not mean to strike thus hard. It was an accident."

"Would that I could so feel it!" he sighed. "Nay, of course I had no evil design when my poor little wife drove me out to give you her rag of ribbon, or whatever it was; but I hated as well as despised the fellow. He had angered me with his scorn--well deserved, as now I see--of our lubberly ways. She had vexed me with her teasing commendations--out of harmless mischief, poor child. I hated him more every time you looked at him, and when I had occasion to strike him I was glad of it. There was murder in my heart, and I felt as if I were putting a rat or a weasel out of the way when I threw him down that pit. G.o.d forgive me! Then, in my madness, I so acted that in a manner I was the death of that poor young thing."

"No, no, sir. Your mother had never thought she would live."

"So they say; but her face comes before me in reproach. There are times when I feel myself a double murderer. I have been on the point of telling all to Mr. Fellowes, or going home to accuse myself. Only the thought of my father and mother, and of leaving such a blight on that poor baby, has withheld me; but I cannot go home to face the sight of the castle."

"No," said Anne, choked with tears.

"Nor is there any suspicion of the poor fellow's fate," he added.

"Not that I ever heard."

"His family think him fled, as was like enough, considering the way in which they treated him," said Charles. "Nor do I see what good it would do them to know the truth."

"It would only be a grief and bitterness to all."

"I hope I have repented, and that G.o.d accepts my forgiveness," said Charles sadly. "I am banis.h.i.+ng myself from all I love, and there is a weight on me for life; but, unless suspicion falls on others, I do not feel bound to make it worse for all by giving myself up. Yet those appearances--to you, to me, to us both! At such a moment, too, last night!"

"Can it be because of his unhallowed grave?" said Anne, in a low voice of awe.

"If it were!" said Charles, drawing up his horse for a moment in thought. "Anne, if there be one more appearance, the place shall be searched, whether it incriminate me or not. It would be adding to all my wrongs towards the poor fellow, if that were the case."

"Even if he were found," said Anne, "suspicion would not light on you. And at home it will be known if he haunts the place. I will-- "

"Nay, but, Anne, he will not interrupt me now. I have much more to say. I want you to remember that we were sweethearts ere ever I, as a child of twelve, knew that I was contracted to that poor babe, and bidden to think only of her. Poor child! I honestly did my best to love her, so far as I knew how, and mayhap we could have rubbed on through life pa.s.sably well as things go. But--but--It skills not talking of things gone by, except to show that it is a whole heart-- not the reversion of one that is yours for ever, mine only love."

"Oh, but--but--I am no match for you."

"I've had enough of grand matches."

"Your father would never endure it."

"My father would soon rejoice. Besides, if we are wedded here--say at Ostend--and you make me a home at Buda, or Vienna, or some place at our winter quarters, as my brave wench will, my father will be glad enough to see us both at home again."

"No; it cannot be. It would be plain treachery to your parents; Mr.

Fellowes would say so. I am sure he would not marry us."

"There are English chaplains. Is that all that holds you back?"

"No, sir. If the Archbishop of Canterbury were here himself, it could not make it other than a sin, and an act of mean ingrat.i.tude, for me, the Prince's rocker, to take advantage of their goodness in permitting you to come and bring me home--to do what would be pain, grief, and shame to them."

"Never shame."

"What is wrong is shame! Cannot you see how unworthy it would be in me, and how it would grieve my uncle that I should have done such a thing?"

"Love would override scruples."

"Not _true_ love."

"True! Then you own to some love for me, Anne."

"I do--not--know. I have guarded--I mean--cast away--I mean--never entertained any such thought ever since I was old enough to know how wicked it would be."

"Anne! Anne!" (in an undertone very like rapture), "you have confessed all! It is no sin _now_. Even you cannot say so."

She hung her head and did not answer, but silence was enough for him.

"It is enough!" he said; "you will wait. I shall know you are waiting till I return in such sort that nothing can be denied me.