CHAPTER XIV.

FATE'S SEQUEL.

"All precious things discovered late, To those that seek them issue forth; For love in sequel works with Fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth." TENNYSON, _The Day Dream._

Harrison led the way down the path across the heather. Soon the narrow lane grew deeper, and the sand softer under their feet. The tiny glen was dark, and Harrison turned, and offered his hand to his companion; but she shook her head in silent refusal, and they plodded on, till suddenly the dark banks broke away, and they came out on the empty moonlit beach. The firm shining sands seemed to stretch away to a limitless distance, the far-off sea was only vaguely visible and no sound came up from it. Down across the wide strand the silent pair rapidly passed, and then Richard halted.

"Here the water begins," he said. "It is too shallow for the boat to come nearer. You must let me carry you to it."

He knew with pride that he had made his tone as cold and formal as her own.

"There is no need," protested Audrey. "I have often waded here, gathering cockles."

"Ay," he answered; "but not when starting on a sea voyage;" and without further question he stooped and lifted her in his arms, and waded in.

A wild feeling of triumph possessed him. So of old might some sea-rover have felt, bearing off his prey from that very shore. His sweetheart was in his arms, he alone could save her from her pursuers; surely her icy pride would melt now. So sweet, so cold, so near him, and yet so far off!

Slowly he splashed forward, the water deepening as he went. Audrey said no word, her little hand rested on his shoulder, she did not move. It seemed to him all too soon, breathless though he was, that they reached the boat, and old Job lifted the precious burden over the side. Harrison climbed, dripping, after, and shook himself like a water-dog, before venturing to approach his lady. Then he took her hand, and led her to the stern of the boat, where he had prepared a heap of cloaks and sails.

"We must do our best to shelter you from the night dew," he said, as he folded the cloak round her, and made an awning of the sails over her head.

So warm and cosy was the little nest, so lulling the slow rocking of the boat, and her lazy creak as she leant over, that Audrey suddenly discovered she was unable to keep her eyes open, and before she could utter the formal speech of thanks she had been conning, she was fast asleep.

She awoke to find the darkness past, and gay sunlight dancing on the ripples, and gilding the brown sail and weather-beaten mast. All was blue around her, a clean pale blue, like a world fresh made, that had not yet bloomed into its full colour. Pale blue was the sky, pale blue the sea, only fringed to the south by a narrow line of gold that showed the sand-hills that hid her home. Close above her stood Harrison, keeping the swaying tiller steady with his knee, a handsome, soldierly figure, in spite of his rough clothes and great sea-boats.

At the other end of the boat the old fisherman was busy with his lines, only laying them down now and again to give a stroke with one oar or the other, and keep the boat's head steady.

As Audrey sat up, Harrison's grave face broke into a smile. Who could think of misunderstandings, regrets, even of repentance, on a spring morning, with a face as fair as the spring dawning on him?

"Good morrow," he said; "you have slept sound."

"Indeed," she answered, "I feel as though I had slept the clock round. What time is it, and what day is it?"

"'Tis Saturday, and our ship will soon be in sight, for the sun is high."

"I am indeed a sluggard!" cried Audrey, looking at the little watch that hung in a silver ball at her waist. "'Tis eight o'clock."

"And Job hath no provisions, save bread and cheese and a flagon of small beer," said Harrison, regretfully. "I would I could have been a better caterer, but my flight was so sudden."

He knelt with one arm over the tiller while he rummaged out the fisherman's store. He thanked the chance that let him serve her on his knees, and lay his offerings at her feet, when, poor fellow, he would so gladly have laid his heart, would she but give leave.

She ate, and drank, and laughed. The colour came back to her cheeks, and the light to her eyes. The sunbeams caught her disordered curls, and played hide and seek in the golden web. Her voice was cool, but not icy, as on the previous evening, only cool, and fresh, and dainty, like the cool air that came in delicate wafts across the water.

But time was flying, flying cruelly fast, he knew. Soon the sails of the _Good Hope_ would be in sight, and never again might he kneel so near his lady. Now or never, before this last chance was snatched from him, he must tell his tale.

"Madam," he began, "this is, perhaps, the last time I may have a word with you in private. Will you give me leave to speak, and entreat your pardon for much that has passed?"

Audrey's head was turned away; it rose a little more proudly, but no answer came for a minute. Then, "I think you have need to ask it," came in muffled tones.

He paused, doubtful what to do. His line of action ought to depend on her state of mind, and who could guess what that might be? She could hardly fail to be indignant with Mr. Marshman, but on which of the many counts was she angry with him? He had argued over the case so often in his mind that he had become desperate of any conclusion, and out of his very desperation a wayward hope began to whisper that possibly, just possibly, as she now knew through Mr. Marshman of the marriage contract, she might even accuse him of carelessness, and hold him to be but a laggard in love. Was she now punishing him for having exposed her to Mr. Marshman's misapprehension, or was she merely troubled and cast down? Who could guess anything while she kept her head turned stiffly away. A wild desire seized him to take her by her pretty shoulders, and turn her round.

"Will you not let me see your face?" he pleaded. "What prisoner would dare sue for mercy if the judge turned his back?"

His voice was not used to the tone of deference, even when he entreated there was something of command in it. He leaned over, and took her hand, and slowly she turned her head towards him.

"I know not," he said gently, "what Mr. Marshman may have dared to say to you, but I do entreat of you to believe whatever he said was without my knowledge or leave to meddle with matters of such privacy. I knew not that he understood anything of my matters; but I have to ask your pardon for having spoken unadvisedly in his presence."

"I am glad he was not your ambassador," answered Audrey, rather coldly.

"And more I have to confess," he continued. "I see now how cowardly a thing I did in hiding in your house, and bringing you into all this peril--for that also I do most heartily ask your forgiveness."

"It was by my asking you came to my house," she answered, in rather a lofty tone. "If I chose to run risks, it was by mine own will; in that matter there is not anything to pardon."

"You are very generous," he answered, so humbly that Audrey was disarmed, and turned to him with all her old sweetness.

"We women are forbid to fight or to speak for our country," she said. "You will not grudge us the right to suffer somewhat for her liberties."

He looked at her with tender admiration. "Methinks you are on the road to be one of Mr. Rogers's disciples," he said.

She laughed, and for a moment forgot her coldness. "Ay, 'tis perilous to spend so many hours with a madman; very like 'tis catching."

"I was of Mr. Rogers's mind in some things before I even knew him," said Richard. "May I tell you how I learned to be of his mind concerning the liberties of women?"

"I knew not any one else preached such doctrines," she said.

"I learned them from a little maid who fell once into a lily pool," he answered. "I learned from the thought of her to honour all women after another fashion than that which I saw common. I will not boast 'twas constancy; very like it was because so few children came to our house, save my uncle's babes, who died ere they left their nurse's arms; but the memory of that little maid abode with me, and sat with me by camp fires, and kept me company on marches, and the desire to be fit for her company taught me some of the things which Mr. Rogers dares to preach. And she abode with me till last Sunday, and then she vanished, because I knew then that the desire of mine eyes was no more a little maid, but a woman grown."

"Oh," she cried, "this is, indeed, madness, for it was by chance only that you came to Inglethorpe."

"Ay, it seems as though it were chance on the face of it. But that kindly chance, perchance the beckoning of the dead hand, hath but hastened the meeting I sought, for I was on my way to seek you in the plantations. Here is my witness," he continued, taking a letter from his breast. "When I fled from London I carried this with me, that it might be mine advocate with your father. It seemed to me scarce honourable to show it you in England, and force myself on you after such a fashion; but seeing the turn things have taken, it is your right to see it. It will at least bear me witness that this chance is but the sequel of what hath gone before."

The letter bore the address: "To my loving friend, Major-General Harrison. These----" It was sealed with the Perrient coat-of-arms. The letter from the dead man to his dead friend had come back.

A sudden memory flashed across Audrey. "You say all this because your minister bade you," she cried.

"Do you, indeed, think me so docile?" he answered, with a laugh that was almost angry.

"I know not what to think of any one," she answered piteously, while two great tears ran down her face.

"Think nothing, save that I desire to live and die for you," he cried. "Audrey, when I parted from your grandfather, he gave me leave to come again, and endeavour to win your heart. But when I would have come, I heard you were departed to New England. That letter is two years old--tell me not that my day of grace is past! And yet, if you bid me tear the letter, I will upon mine honour strive to guard you as a brother on this journey. But there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother, and to be such a friend to you, I will serve as many years as Jacob served for a wife. May I carry this letter to your father? You will not bid me tear it?"

A rainbow smile flickered over Audrey's face. "'Tis no use to tear it," she said. "I have here its fellow;" and she pulled out her letter and held it to him.

He gazed at it, dumb with surprise. "You have its fellow!" he said at last. "You knew all! And while I was tormenting myself to keep silence, I was but playing the part of a laggard wooer!"

"I only found the letter at Hunstanton the other night," she said.

"And you kept it! You were as kind to me as before! You were not unwilling to hear of the design! Audrey, you know you have all my heart; I can be content with nothing less than yours in return."

"I fear you are no honest man," she murmured. "You stole it before ever you asked my leave."

His arm was round her. "My dear heart, believe that I have waited half my lifetime for this kiss."

"Oh, Dick! Remember old Job! He will be making a mock of us!"

"Tush! he is busy with his oars and lines; he heeds us not!"

"Luff, sir, luff!" shouted the maligned fisherman, with a twinkle in his eye. "Here be the _Good Hope_ a bearing down on us. 'Tis a pretty name, the _Good Hope_, and I hope as she'll bring 'ee luck."

"Thank you, friend; methinks few men can have such good hope to carry on a voyage as I! There is Mr. Rogers signalling with his hat. Wave your handkerchief, and show him we are here! And, sweetheart," he whispered, "Mr. Rogers must make us one as soon as we land in Rotterdam, that you may despatch the bride ribbons to good Mistress Joyce by the ship on her return."

And this was how Richard Harrison learned that he might still follow the path marked out for him by his Lost Leader, and received his bride from the hand that had cherished his childhood. And with the knowledge, the hopes of his childhood came back to him, and he gathered faith that as the wanderings of his dark days had brought him to the door of his love, so the dark ways of earth may be but the shortest road to lead the pilgrim to the Celestial City, if but he follow close his Divine Leader.

NOTES.

PROLOGUE.

1. The interview between the king and Major Harrison is described by Anthony Wood.

2. There is no historical evidence of Major Harrison adopting a nephew; but as none of his own children lived to grow up, while several families in the United States of America believe they can trace their descent to this, "the most single-minded of the Regicides," the existence of an adopted son is suggested as a theory to meet the difficulty.