Part 18 (1/2)
”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.”