vain. Christopher was painfully struck by the news that Reuben had been following John Hickes, and that Hickes was here. He feared a snare.
“But how is it that you are here?” asked Elizabeth. And this brought out the dreary story.
All was over. Christopher and Florien had been going to Lyme, to get on board one of the Duke’s vessels there, when his comrade and old tutor saw how it was breaking his heart to depart without seeing Elizabeth. While they supposed she was with her brother, a meeting seemed wholly out of the question; but a Dorchester man assured them that she was not at home, but with Lady Lisle. Then it was settled that Christopher should take the place of Monmouth’s guide to the New Forest, should make a quick ride to Winchester, and be back in time to reach the vessel from Lyme, or from some other of the points of the coast which he knew so well.
“The Duke’s guide!” repeated Elizabeth, in perplexity and dismay.
“All is over, as I said; and the Duke is a fugitive like the rest of us. We entreated him to go into Wales, his mother’s country. He would have been safer there. But his passionate desire is to get back to Brussels; and he would not go out of the way of the Channel ships. The only chance in this direction is that he may hide for a time in the forest. The deer-stealers may be bribed to take care of him.”
“And you were his guide? Where is he, then? But perhaps I ought not to ask.”
“I could not tell you, if I would. I brought him and Lord Grey to a place where they thought proper to turn their tired horses loose. I offered the Duke mine, of course; but they believed themselves safer on foot. Then I could not help them further, and by staying should only have hindered them. But we will not speak of them further.”
“Only this,” said Elizabeth, raising her head from his shoulder, and looking wistfully in his face, in the dusk of the summer-night—“Can you tell me that you do not repent what you have done?”
“I can,” he answered, meeting her gaze with a smile which gave her unspeakable comfort. “There has been much to disappoint every true man. The fault, I suppose, is with those who over-persuaded Monmouth. I hoped much from our first successes,—that they would open and elevate his heart: but he cannot stand discouragement. He quailed under a heavy rain, which thinned our force by a half in one night. The Taunton people sent a deputation to beg him not to go there again; and when I saw how his countenance fell. But let us not speak of him. Do not suppose we broke up without a struggle. I cannot tell you of it now. On some happier day, in some future year, I may tell you about the battle on Sedgemoor.”
“Oh! say that again!” she cried, with a convulsive clasp of his neck. “I thought this was our last”
“O no, no!” he said. “I must go abroad for the present: but it cannot be for long. Consider, love! Do you believe that Protestant England will endure a Popish King? We must wait, as patiently as we can, for a time. The King is old, and then”
“O! what then?”
“A Protestant Queen will come; and I shall come in her train. We can bear to wait, love!”
“O yes: if you carry an easy mind—if you do not repent.”
“There can be no repentance when we have devoted ourselves in the cause of the true Church. I may have erred in judgment: but I should have done worse if I had been a dumb dog, shrinking from danger when others were rushing out to drive the Romish wolf from the fold. You, Elizabeth—you would rather see me as I am now, than in a hypocritical prosperity. You had rather wait till the next reign than marry me to-morrow, with an ignominious secret to be kept between us.”
“No matter about me!” she said, “If only I can know that you have an easy mind”
“Never doubt it, love! We must suffer. The Lord’s people have to suffer in the latter days of the prosperity of the wicked. The only thing is to be willing. But,” he added, cheerfully, “though I carry an easy mind, I cannot exactly say so of my body.” And he gently raised her, to relieve the pressure on his arm.
“You are wounded!” exclaimed Elizabeth, starting to her feet.
“I am; but not perilously,” he answered, drawing her down to sit on the other side of him.
At this moment Madam Lisle appeared, bringing food and wine. The flask was for his pocket: but he must drink now also; and so must Elizabeth.
“He is wounded!” said Elizabeth, tearfully.
“What can we do?” said Madam Lisle. “Cannot you stay? It may be of consequence that you should rest. There may be fever”
She broke off, understanding but too well that his only chance lay in getting down to the coast at once. He readily promised to take care of his wound as soon as he should be on board-ship.
“Farewell then!” said his old friend. “Elizabeth will tell me your news. Take with you the blessing of an aged disciple of the true Lord, who honours the zeal of such as you.”
Christopher received the blessing standing, with bowed and uncovered head.
“Have you money?” asked Madam Lisle, returning.
“I have. I have everything needful:” and Madam Lisle was gone.
“O! is there nothing that I can do for you?” exclaimed Elizabeth, as she saw that the moment of parting had come.
“Much,—much that we can do for each other,” he answered. “We can confide in each other,—cheerfully—gaily: and what boon that one can give to another can compare with this? And you will cheer my mother,—you will cheer the whole household. I must find my love her own bright self when I come back, and not moulded over with melancholy.”
“You shall,” she whispered.
“And I,” he pursued, “will make myself