When Ned, covering my retreat, presented himself before my father in the dining-hall, he found Sir Michael seated in his great chair by the hearth13; on his one side at respectful distance stood Farmer Kidd, while on the other, and close to his father, sat Philip.
Now Kidd, much delayed by the foundering14 of his horse, had come in about midnight, bringing the first clear news of my safety. He had found Sir Michael in some disorder15, between the pain in his leg, much aggravated16 by his vigil, and anxiety for his daughter. Poor Christopher was like to have suffered in consequence; for Sir Michael, while filling him with food and drink, rated him soundly for leaving me behind, and would have had him return at once to Royston. Philip, whose name and face had gotten him a good mount upon the road, arriving about half an hour later than Christopher, found him dulled with fatigue17 and feeding, and halting half-way between slumber18 and tears. My father's mind was soon at rest about his errant daughter; for, when he learned that Ned Royston had me in charge, and knew that I was Philippa, he merely said that I could not be in safer hands, and thereafter addressed himself at once to the consideration of Philip's story.
"And so, dear sir," said my brother, when his tale was done, "give me a horse and money, and I will make my way back to France, that I may keep faith with Royston, and set myself again to serve those that sent me into England."
"Not so, Philip," answered his father, "for I will give you nothing to become once more the active enemy of the Prince of Orange. If I do clip thy claws, thou must stay with me till these troubles are done. I like not your faith; Gad19 's my life! I like not your cause, for all it was once mine. But yourself I do love. For the sweet sake of your mother, son of mine, stay with me whom all have left."
"A Drayton, sir," replied Philip, "must do his part, on what side soever it has pleased God to set him."
"You are right, lad," the old man answered; "and therefore will I give you neither horse nor money."
Thus it was that upon his coming amongst them Captain Royston had but to tell the dreadful sequel of Philip's escape. But, between his very cordial greeting of Ned and the hearing his story, my father, with a fine discretion20, begged Kidd that he would attend to the Captain's horse, the grooms21 being all abed. Which Christopher very willingly hastened to do, preferring a stable and a bed of straw to the dining-hall and Sir Michael's varied23 cheer.
His story told, and they asking where was Philippa, Ned answered, between draughts24 from a great tankard of spiced ale, that he believed I was gone to my chamber25. On this Sir Michael himself hobbled to the room where lay my Lady Mary, whence he transferred Prudence26 from attendance on her ladyship to the duty she vastly preferred, of waiting upon me. Alone with Ned, Philip at once declared the purpose of making his way to Exeter, and of laying before His Highness, in the act of surrendering himself, the true state of the whole matter. Sir Michael returning in the midst of Royston's objections to what he called so useless a sacrifice, the matter was debated among the three far into the morning, my lover concluding that ill was best let alone, for fear of worse; my brother, that he had no choice in honor but to give himself up; my father, that they were both fools, and that he himself was the person to set the matter in its true light before His Highness of Orange. And so they separated for the night, which of them all being in most need of rest it would be hard to say.
But my good father, before he slept, paid a secret visit to the stable, there leaving orders with Kidd, the sleepy chief of a sleepy band of agrestic warriors27 (for the squadron I had led out at noon was at length painfully gathered in and billeted in the hay-loft), and with the chief groom22 of his own establishment, that no man (adding hastily, "nor no woman neither") should take horse from their door without his own express command. For he feared that either Ned would escape him, and so cut this knot of his own generous making; or that Philip would effect an early start to throw himself, with little gain to us all, into the hands of his enemies. And so, after threats of the most terrible, which served at least, as the sequel shows, to keep his commands from mixing with their dreams, Sir Michael got him to his bed where, if the just indeed sleep well, he slumbered29 very peacefully till the unwonted hour of nine in the morning.
I do not think that poor Philip found much sleep. The choice between divergent duties, with harm to his family involved in one decision, to a brave and generous friend in the other, may well keep even the just awake. The household being much belated, he was able between six and seven of the morning to let himself out unobserved. On coming to the stable, however, he found that he could on no terms but Sir Michael's order be furnished with a horse; not even with that which had brought him to the house the night before. After some minutes of deep thought, he hastily penned a few lines on a leaf of his tablets, which he then tore out and carefully folded, begging Christopher, as he loved the honor of the house, to keep it unread and undivulged until two o'clock of the afternoon, when he should hand it to Sir Michael. But if, as he deemed by no means likely of occurrence, His Highness of Orange should before that hour honor Sir Michael with a visit, the letter must at once be delivered. With which he left the yet sleep-ridden Christopher, willing, indeed, to do his behest, but so mightily31 astonished at the mystery in which he found himself involved, that he failed even to mark the road of Philip's departure.
The letter, which I hold to be a notable example of my brother's forethought, I will give here rather than in its place of coming to light, for the better understanding of Philip's motive32 and action.
"TO MY DEAR AND HONORED FATHER: Being resolved to do what I may to repair the great evil I have brought upon Edward Royston, and fearing hindrance33 at your hands or his, I have taken myself off while you are yet sleeping. Finding, however, that you have laid a strict embargo34 upon the stable, I go first afoot to the Grange, where old Simcox will doubtless mount me with the best in his stable.
"I call to mind some words of Royston's, however, of His Highness of Orange intending a visit to Drayton. Now, although it is more than likely he has foregone this purpose after what ensued upon my escape, it is yet possible that some compunction of his own hastiness, or return of gratitude35 to Philippa, may bring him to your door. From the Grange, therefore, I purpose taking the road to Exeter that runs by 'The Crow's Nest,' whence one may see the roofs of Drayton. I shall be particular not to leave that point before the stroke of noon. If, therefore, the improbable occur, and the Prince be come, or announced to come, to Drayton before that hour, I beg of you, my dear sir, to fly the old flag from the turret36 mast; which, if I see, I will make the best of my way back to you, knowing that you will not contrive37 from my plan a ruse38 to lure39 me home against my conscience.
"If the Prince be gone to Exeter, and I there get audience of him, remember that even the failure of my plea for Royston will not injure your own subsequent representations, but will rather by corroboration40 of evidence strengthen them. Your obedient son,
"P.D."
Thus it ran. The Grange, I should say, is the old Holroyd house, and Simcox, my father's bailiff for the estate.
So much for two of those that sat so late in the hall.
As for Ned, neither joy (if, as I suppose, some joy was in him) nor grief, of which he thought never through life to be rid, was to prevail against the oppression of sleep long denied. He slept as the dead sleep, till long after my father was abroad.
But for a soporific commend me to a decoction of new-found love and great fatigue of body. It was from the pleasant action of this sleeping-draught that I awoke to find my chamber bathed in the first sunshine of many dreary41 days. And, as I lay with eyes half opened, I felt in my bosom42 a gladness answering to the sunshine without. And searching in my mind for the threads of memory that should join my life with the day that was past, and tell me the reason why I was glad, I found that the answer was Love. But a little cloud soon driving across the sun had also its inward response in my half-awakened spirit, and I asked myself was there then some evil thing in this sweet world of mine?
And so I stumbled heavily upon the memory that Ned's love had in its fulness come to me in the very hour of disgrace. And then I awoke from a maid floating blissfully upon the sweet sea of conscious repose43 to the woman fain to pay the price of love in deeds for her lover.
Prudence was not far, and I was not long in dressing44. Having, however, more food for thought than use for my tongue, I by and by perceived that my little handmaid was very ready to make cause of a tiff45 out of my silence. This might have passed, for I thought with a gentle word or two and a smile to turn aside the coming storm.
Nor had I much doubt of success in this, when, after watching my face a while in the mirror, she exclaimed: "Why, madam, how beautiful you appear this morning! One would think some great good thing had befallen you yesterday, rather than a great fatigue. You are vastly changed, madam."
"Nay46, Prudence, be not so fanciful," I cried, marking, nevertheless, in the mirror how the color rose in my face. "Pray, child, what difference do you find?"
"It is hard to name," she answered, "but 't is there. Your regard is large and tender. Your eyes, madam—your eyes hold some secret of joy."
Here she paused a while, turning her gaze from the mirror to my face itself. Then at length: "Why, madam, I have it," she cried; "you are in one night grown to be a woman!"
To hide my cheeks, that would soon, I knew, most furiously glow, I turned to the wardrobe to take from it the gown I proposed wearing. But when she saw that it was the finest in stuff, and latest in fashion of all my slender stock, her curiosity broke out afresh. Receiving no reply to her many questions, she watched me in dumb displeasure, while I shaped a piece of black plaister, and applied47 it to the little wound that Ned's sword had made on my bosom, for the gown, being cut somewhat more freely open than I mostly used, would have left the scratch uncovered from the air. All this was more than Prue could bear.
"I do perceive," she said, with pale cheeks and tilted48 chin, "that in some manner I have offended madam, since she no longer gives me her confidence; I fear it is no time to ask her advice in a matter that gives much distress49 and anxiety to one that she was wont30 to hold her very faithful servant." Whereupon she left the chamber very quickly, giving me no space to appease50 her anger.
Finishing my toilet alone, I began to wonder what was this mighty51 secret with which she had now twice threatened me; and, doubtless, nothing but my great preoccupation of thought saved Mistress Prudence, privileged person although she was become, from a mighty smart reprimand on our next encountering for her petulant52 conduct.
That excellent dignity of bearing which I believed myself to have endued53, as well as my finest gown, was destined54 to be spent (if indeed it were not altogether thrown away) upon old Emmet and a single waiting-maid. From Simon I learned that it had been thought well not to disturb the three gentlemen, whom he supposed still sleeping. Lady Mary, he added, had been much shaken by her adventures of the previous day, and found herself unable to leave her bed. So I sat me down alone, and made a meal of most unblushing amplitude55. Since I was a child, I may say, I had never known myself to lack good appetite, and I now found that so far from weakening my desire and enjoyment56 of my victuals57, as would seem most fitting in a young woman of sentiment, the fatigues58, emotions, and excitements of the day before had but set a keener edge to my relish59 of these, as of all other good things in what I could but think, despite all drawbacks, was a very engaging and gladsome world.
Now it was a custom with me to have Prudence wait upon me at breakfast, arising, I suppose, from a certain loneliness I did use to feel when my dear father's ailments60 would keep him for days together in his chamber. She being this morning absent, and I asking where she was, Simon soon made it plain that he was not pleased with his granddaughter.
"Faith, madam," he said, "I cannot tell where she is. The little baggage grows past my holding. She is as full of mysteries as an egg is full of meat."
"Nay, Simon," I answered, "'t is no mystery. She spoke61 very boldly to me but now, and fled to avoid correction. I make no doubt she is gone for comfort to Christopher Kidd."
"There 's more in it, madam, than Farmer Kidd," answered Simon, his old head shaking with the ominous62 relish of him that justifies63 suspicion of evil. "A loaf, a cheese, and a great piece of salted beef are this morning missed from the larder64, and, as I live," he cried, peering into the great beer jack65 that stood upon the table, "who but the hussy should have taken more than the half of the ale that I drew for breakfast? She did pass through the hall on leaving your chamber, madam; Christopher and all his men are well fed in the kitchen, and have but to ask for what they lack."
And here I was scarce able to hold back my laughter. The picture of little Prudence, so dainty and modest, for all that something of coquetry was part of her nature, so feeding a secret lover did mightily tickle66 my fancy.
"Do not fret67 for the ale, Simon," I said gaily68. "Please Heaven, it will find its way down a thirsty throat. If Prue be the thief indeed, I shall know the drinker before sunset. She is a good maid, and will not long keep a secret from a mistress that holds her in much affection and esteem69." These last words were as much for the other serving-woman that was by as for Prue's censorious grandfather.
Sending word to Lady Royston that I would gladly know when her ladyship was willing I should wait upon her, I now retired70 to my garden, finding more company in its few remaining flowers, and in the fresh and sunny autumn air, than in a house but yet half awake. And I had within me, whether carried from the house, or gathered from the sweet odors drawn by the sun from the sodden71 earth, I know not, a sense that some great thing was coming; that this was but the lull72 before our wits and tongues should be again engaged in a conflict for love, for honor, and perhaps for life.
And I knelt on a little stone bench, warmed with the sun, and prayed to Him who did make these three best things, that wit might be keen, and tongue eloquent73, to set them high above doubt and question hereafter.
To me, after it might be half an hour, came Prudence, bearing in a very innocent countenance74 an expression of injury most Christianly endured. Madam Royston, she said, would be vastly obliged by a visit from me, but she was bidden by Captain Royston to say he had matter for my ear that was of moment, to be delivered before I should speak with madam his mother.
"And where is Captain Royston to be found?" I asked.
"And why was I not informed that he was risen?" I demanded.
"If madam gave order to that effect," she replied, "it came not to my ear."
This petty vantage of feminine fence had not long remained hers, had I not been more concerned to reach the great hall than to open a general attack in the matter of the missing beef and beer. The better part of the way to the house I ran rather than walked—that part, I mean, that is not in sight of the hall windows. Within I found Ned alone, eating his breakfast. A cloud of gloom was over his face, and, though he rose with great courtesy and alacrity76 to meet me, his greeting seemed rather a submission77 to my embrace than the clasp of an ardent78 lover.
It is not unlikely that in a happier hour I had taken this reception ill, but, thinking I could read his thought, I let it pass, which I was soon very glad to have done, when his words made it plain that I had not read him amiss. For a while I pressed him with food, with questions of what rest he had taken, of his mother's health, and with other talk indifferent to the issue that yet, as I plainly saw, did lie between us. But, do what I might, I could bring no smile to his face; I could see the man held a tight rein79 upon himself, for all he could not keep his eyes from taking full account of my person on this his first seeing me after so many years in the full light of day, and in my proper garb80. And there was great holiday in my heart, for I knew that I pleased him well; had I not the word both of mirror and handmaid that I was not ill to look upon? Moreover, those eyes of his, restrained though they were from all expressive81 admiration82, could not conceal83 something that I took to be a kind of hunger.
At length, finding that his discomfort84 was in no way diminished, I asked him, speaking mighty small and meek85, what it was he wished to say to me, before I should pay my respects to my Lady Mary.
"I would pray you," he answered, "by no means at this present to make mention to my mother of—of the matter—I mean, of my disgrace with His Highness of Orange."
It was only by an effort, it seemed, that the last words could be uttered. I arose from the seat whence I had confronted him at the table, dropped him a little courtesy, and walked toward the door. But, passing behind his chair as I went, I felt my heart so filled with pity and sorrow that I knew I must either fall into a passion of tears or speak more fully28 and closely with him who now bore such things for me and mine. So behind him I stayed, and, casting an arm about his neck, "Ned," I whispered, "dear Ned, wilt86 in no manner be comforted?'"
His voice shook a little, in spite of that curbing87 rein, as he answered me. "Where lies the comfort that I should take, sweet Phil?" he said.
"'T is unkind in you, dear, to make me speak unmaidenly," I replied. "I know your woes88, but is it, then, nothing that I also share them? Am I perhaps of no account, for that my love is no new thing?"
"Your love, Philippa," he said, in a voice that was now become very tender and solemn, "is a pearl of price so great that but yesterday it was all I asked of Heaven. But shall this jewel be set in a filthy89 copper90 ring? I know, sweetheart," he went on, "that you have found me churlish this morning. But since I awoke I have one only thought in my mind, that I did wrong last night, with my honor thus overshadowed, to tell you of my love."
"Nay," I said, "there was no telling; and there needed none."
"Did I not tell you—" he began.
But from over his shoulder I gently clapped hand upon his mouth, crying: "Hush91, dear Ned! 'T was this way that it befell. Listen, for all else is what you have dreamed." And I took here the tone and manner of one that tells to a child the sweetest fairy-tale he knows. "Two did ride in the night. The two had each a heart, and the heart of one was sore hurt. Now of the other the heart was well and safely lodged92 behind a little secret door. And this door was never opened, though there was one did know the way to it, and at his knock it had been wont of old to move somewhat ajar on the hinge. But in that dark night the heart that was hurt did cry aloud, and—and that small door did fly open, and now, Ned——"
"Ay, sweetheart?" he said, as I paused; and he tried to look round at me: but I would not let him.
"And now, Ned," I continued, "the door is closed forever; but the heart is abroad, and hath no home but here." And here I slipped to my knees by his side, leaning with hands tight clasped in supplication93 against his breast. "My lord," I said, "must even keep his promise to his handmaid, who will gladly bear all that she may share with him. But, without his presence and his love, the sun will be darkened to her eyes all the days of her life."
And so there was an end; for his arms came about me and ended all strife94 between us even to this moment of writing.
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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encumber
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despatch
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approbation
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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majesties
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hearth
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foundering
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disorder
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aggravated
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fatigue
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slumber
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gad
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discretion
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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groom
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varied
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draughts
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chamber
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prudence
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warriors
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fully
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slumbered
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wont
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mightily
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motive
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hindrance
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embargo
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gratitude
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turret
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contrive
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ruse
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lure
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corroboration
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dreary
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bosom
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repose
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dressing
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tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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applied
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tilted
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distress
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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