Chapter VIII

Of my Surprising Deliverance from Death, my last Meeting with Anthony Dacre, and of certain Notable Passages ’twixt Mistress Alison and Myself.

I.

The place in which they installed me to wait for my end was a little cottage some fifty yards away from the farmhouse, where Fairfax had set up his quarters, and stood in an angle of the fields that lie ’twixt Skinner Lane and the hamlet of Tanshelf. It afforded but the most indifferent accommodation, there being naught in the way of furniture but a chair or two, a pallet bed in one corner and a deal table, but in my then condition these things were more than sufficient for my wants, and I made no complaint of them. Nay, when Merciful Wiggleskirk offered me some apology for the poor quarters he had brought me to I checked him, and pointed out that to a man who has but some sixteen hours to live a cottage is as fine as a palace.

“Why, sure,” says he, “death is the greatest leveller--but is there naught that we can do for your honour? Your honour,” he says, giving me a sly look, “is such a generous rewarder----”

“Friend,” says I, “I verily believe that I have not even a penny-piece upon me. As for reward then----”

“I meant you to understand,” says he, “that I had already received my reward, and was minded to do still more to deserve what you have already bestowed upon me. So if there is aught that you lack----”

“Faith,” says I, “thou art a good fellow. Why, now I come to think on’t, I should be pleased to have pen, ink, and paper, so that I may spend an hour or two in writing some necessary matters. ’Twill help me to kill the time of waiting,” I says.

“You shall have what you wish, Master Coope,” says he, and he went forth to his fellow at the door and despatched him for the things I needed. “I shall be on guard with you alone for the rest of the time,” says he, returning to my side. “A lame man can make little shift to escape, and we need all our men in the works. There is to be a great assault made upon the Castle to-night.”

“Ah!” says I, “under other circumstances I could like to ha’ joined in it; but to tell the truth, good fellow, my foot gives me so much pain as to put the thoughts of everything out o’ my mind. Faith!” says I, with a grim laughter filling me at the very humour of it, “I believe I’m more concerned about the pain o’ this plaguey foot than that I am to be shot i’ the morning.”

“Why, master,” says he, looking out of the window, “let’s hope you’ll shortly find some relief, for here’s Sir Thomas’s chirurgeon coming to see you,” and he opened the door to admit a little, hatchet-jawed fellow, that eyed me curiously, and demanded to see my hurt. He took my leg in his lap, and prodded my swollen ankle here and there with so much abstracted curiosity that I lost my temper with him.

“Master surgeon,” says I, “you torture me, and I have no mind to be tortured by anybody. For God’s sake,” I says, “either relieve my pain, or put my foot down!”

But he looked at me out of his leaden eyes and gave me such a nip over the ankle bone as made me roar with agony. “Yea,” says he, “I thought the hurt lay there. However, in three days you shall walk as well as ever.”

“Thank you for naught,” says I, mightily inclined to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him to pieces. “Three days!--why, man, in three days I shall ha’ seen things that you are never like to see--I am to be shot at daybreak i’ the morning.”

“Are you so?” says he, with a stare. “Pooh! I waste my valuable time,” he says, and walks out of the cottage without another word. And thereat, in spite of the pain and vexation, I burst out a-laughing, and bade Merciful Wiggleskirk shut the door on the leech’s back. “Faith, I think he was in the right on’t, after all!” says I. “What’s the good of mending a man that’s to be broken for good in a few hours?”

“Why, I don’t know about that, master,” says Merciful. “I conceive that a man hath a right to be eased of his pain ere his end, so that he may make a good quittance. And if you’ve no objection,” he says, “I’ll try my own healing art upon you with an ointment that I always carry about my person--a very balm of Gilead it is, and hath worked the marvellousest cures.”

“With all my heart, lad,” says I, “thou canst do aught thou’rt minded to, short o’ cutting my leg off. I must make shift to stand straight in the morning.”

He brought out the little box that contained his ointment and began to rub my leg with it. “I have some acquaintance with the healing art,” says he. “I was boy to a doctor at one time, and made experiments on my own account. Besides, my merciful nature obliges me to exercise my office upon all that are in distress.”

“Thou art a queer fellow,” says I. “But, come, tell me of what happened at the Manor House this morning. I am anxious to know how it fared with the serving-folk.”

“Oh,” says he, “at daybreak they hung out a flag and submitted themselves, and we had free entrance to the house, and were sore concerned, I promise you, to find naught there but servants. Captain Stott was for dealing sternly with them at first, but, what, they had but obeyed orders, and so he let them go their own ways, and set himself to track you and madam.”

“But we heard cannon discharged,” says I.

“Yea,” says he, rubbing away at my foot, “your ancient house, Master Coope, is certainly not of such fair proportions as it was. Stott fired two discharges into it, and you will have some repairs to see to if you intend--but I forgot,” he says, looking at me with a curious smile, “that you will not need earthly residence much longer.”

“So the old house is dismantled?” says I.

“Why, say somewhat disarranged,” says he.

“May the Lord reward whoever did it!” says I, and fell a prey to bitter thoughts. I had loved that old house, and it gave me sore pain to think of it, a heap of ruins over my uncle’s grave. “Alack!” thinks I, sadly. “What evil days have we fallen upon. My uncle lies dead and buried under his own floor, Alison is in the hands of Anthony Dacre, and here sit I, waiting to be shot. Was ever sadder fortune?”

But there Merciful Wiggleskirk gave up his ministrations, and looked up at me from where he knelt on the floor.

“Now, master,” says he, “how does your hurt feel by this time?”

“Why,” says I, working my ankle about, “I believe it is a deal easier. That ointment o’ thine must be rare stuff--it has certainly given me relief.”

“I could have you fit to stand upright without pain by to-morrow,” says he, proudly. “Ah! this is, as I said, the very balm of Gilead. I concocted the notion on’t myself, and would not sell it for a deal o’ money. When I grow weary of this fighting trade, master, I shall set up as an empiric----”

“It would reward you better,” says I. “And were a fitter employment for a man of your powers. I’m obliged to you,” I says. “The smart hath abated marvellously.”

“I will minister to you again ere long,” says he. “You shall walk out of this cottage straight enough in the morning. But here’s your pens and paper,” he says, seeing the other trooper returning. “So now you can fall to your writing, master.”

It was now past noon, and ere long there was brought to us food and drink, which we consumed together with as much satisfaction as we could get out of each other’s company. True, the thought of my condition did sometimes come upon me as I ate, and made my food to stick in my throat, but as there was no use in repining at my fate, I strove to be free of regret, and to behave myself like a man. And the food and drink putting some heart into me, I presently turned to the table, and began to write, in which occupation I found great comfort and relief.

Now, I verily believe that troubled as I was at my own fate (for I was troubled though I strove hard not to be) I was more concerned on account of Alison. After all that I had done to prevent it, she had in the end fallen into the hands of Anthony Dacre. I had no cause to be especially anxious for her safety when I first heard Anthony’s designs against her, for she and I, on the rare occasions of our meeting, had never been able to get on together, and she had treated me with a certain haughty contempt that I secretly resented. But I had never been able to endure the thought of her being in Anthony’s power, and after I had lived under the same roof with her, and seen much of her I felt that I would stay at naught to save her from him. And there was more than that, for, somehow, I had come to love her with a rare passion, even when she flouted and teased me. This made life exceeding bitter for me in what I believed to be its last hours. There I was, a prisoner in more ways than one, unable to move hand or foot to succour her whose image was constantly before me, while she, for aught I knew to the contrary, was in the hands of a man whom I knew from his own confession to be a black-hearted villain, and incapable of mercy or consideration where his own vile inclination was concerned.

There was but one thing that comforted me in this sore pass and that was the thought of Alison’s own fearlessness. She was one of those women that are accustomed--faith, there are precious few of them that I have seen during fifty years of life!--to think and act for themselves, and I could readily imagine her to be more than a match for Anthony Dacre, so long as natural wit was the only weapon employed by both. It might be that she, finding herself in his hands, would contrive means for her safe progress to her father’s house and even delude him into procuring them. Thus, I was somewhat comforted, and yet it was a hateful thought to me that the woman I loved was in the company of a man whom I heartily despised. It was not that I had any jealous feeling--though she had teased me about him as we sat under the bridge, saying that he was a handsome man, a devoted cavalier, and so forth, which was her woman’s way of professing what she didn’t believe for very sport--but that I had so much respect and affection for her that I would have done aught--aye, and had done so much as to lose my own life by it--to keep her unsmirched even by the mere company of villainy. But caged as I was what could I do?--and so I hoped for the best, and sat me down to write letters to my cousin, having arranged with Merciful Wiggleskirk that he would use his utmost endeavour to have the packet delivered.

Now of what I then wrote I have at this time but the least knowledge, for the packet came into Alison’s hands--though not after the fashion that I had intended--and she has since taken the strictest care of it, and values it so much that she will not permit it to pass out of her keeping even for a moment. However, what I do remember is that I spent all that afternoon and evening in writing--with some intervals wherein Merciful Wiggleskirk rubbed his balm of Gilead into my foot, much to its great benefit--and that in the end I used all the paper that the trooper had brought me, and so was obliged to lay down my pen unsatisfied.

It was then close upon midnight, and being sore fatigued, I lay down on the bed, sleepy enough, in spite of the fate that was but some seven hours distant. Merciful Wiggleskirk mounted guard over me, rarely satisfied with the result of his ministrations to my injury. “Faith!” says I, “I think I shall sleep well,” and I bade him good-night.

But there was much about to happen, and since I had naught to do with that which brought it about, I shall here present to you the account of it that was written down afterwards by Alison herself.

II.

A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE TRANSACTION BETWEEN ALISON FRENCH AND ANTHONY DACRE, NOW SET DOWN AFTER A PLAIN FASHION BY THE FORMER.--A. F.

When Colonel Sands so rudely bade me begone from the camp, and I saw my cousin Richard led away by the troopers to what I felt assured must end in his death, I was so sore distrest that for some moments my wits forsook me and I knew not what to say or do. It was, I think, at that moment that I first discovered my love for my cousin, and that, perhaps, had as much to do with my confession as aught else. They gave him no time to speak with me ere they led him away, but he turned himself about at the door of the house into which they were conducting him, and gave me a swift glance, and when I met his eyes I knew that I loved him with all my heart, which had never till then been stirred by the thought of any man. Then he was gone, and I felt that all was over, and that for the rest of my life I should carry with me the pain of that moment which was yet mingled with the joy that comes to a woman who suddenly discovers that she is loved and that she loves in return.

It was Anthony Dacre that woke me out of my reverie. He drew near and addressed me by name. I know not what sort of countenance I turned upon him, but he stood back and looked afraid. But on the instant I grew calm. There was naught but danger of the worst sort to the man I loved and to myself (and I was now the dearer to myself because he loved me) in that moment. “This is no time,” thought I, “for rashness or for ill-temper. I must keep my wits, and see if I cannot devise something to save Dick from his fate.” And therewith a thought flashed across my mind. My wit against all of them--my woman’s wit against Anthony Dacre’s subtlety and Fairfax’s decree. I had always prided myself on my strong-mindedness and my common-sense--of what avail were either if they could not help the man I loved when his need was of the greatest? Could not?--nay, but they should! I would be strong and wise: it should not be for lack of endeavour if I did not outwit them all.

I turned to Anthony Dacre with a gracious manner.

“And so you are to form my escort, cousin?” I said, speaking to him with a civility which belied the loathing and contempt I kept for him in my heart.

He looked at me with a great surprise, wondering perhaps what had brought this change over me.

“I have made some arrangements for you,” he said. “I shall conduct you to your father’s house with great pleasure. Will it please you to set out at once?”

“Why,” said I, affecting to treat the matter lightly, “I am ill-provided with riding-gear. Would it not suit your convenience to stay our progress at the Manor House so that I can fit myself out in proper fashion?”

“Anything that you desire, cousin,” said he.

“Then we will set out at once,” I said, and gave him my hand in order that he might assist me to the horse which stood near. “But I fear,” I said, when I had disposed myself as well as I could, “that we shall find the old house a heap of ruins, and my gear may not easily be come at.”

“It is certainly somewhat damaged,” said he, “and believe me, cousin, it was much against my will. But I am but a gentleman volunteer, after all, and things have gone beyond my power. I wish,” he said, as we rode away, followed by his two men, “that you had thought better of me, cousin, at the beginning of this sad matter. It would have saved much bloodshed and trouble.”

Now there was naught that I so much desired at that moment as to turn in my saddle and look Anthony Dacre straight in the face and tell him my true thoughts. It would have given me the greatest relief--but there was so much at stake that I must needs lie to him and to myself if I would win the game I was playing.

“Cousin,” I answered, as gracious in voice as if it gave me pleasure to be in his company, “I, too, am sorry that there have been misunderstandings. But when one is misinformed----”

“Ah!” he said eagerly. “So your mind was poisoned against me, cousin? Let me now swear to you that in all this I have sought nothing but your own comfort and safety. When Fairfax determined to attack Sir Nicholas I entreated that the matter might be placed in my hands so that no insult should be offered to yourself. Alas!--I know not what it was that prejudiced you against me in this. Suffer me to believe that you are satisfied with my explanation, cousin.”

“I am sorry that I did not know your true character earlier, cousin,” I answered.

“I am overjoyed to think that we are reconciled,” said he, “it has hurt me much to feel that I lay under your displeasure.”

“I have observed to others,” I said, still humouring him, “that you are a devoted cavalier, Master Anthony,” and I gave him a smile that fetched the colour to his face, “and so I expect you to attend me to my father’s house, and there you shall be duly rewarded--maybe with----”

“Ah!” said he, coming nearer to me. “With what, cousin?”

“Why,” said I, with another smile, “with what so devoted a knight has the right to expect,” and with that I whipped up my horse and rode forward as if in some confusion. He laughed and came after me, and so we pressed on to Hardwick agreeing very well indeed.

Now when we turned into the courtyard of the old house the sight of the ruin caused by the cannon was like to make me weep, but I restrained myself and suffered Anthony Dacre to lead me within. The kitchen and hall were least damaged of the lower apartments, and in the former we found old Barbara and Jasper who were pottering about in sore lamentation, and seemed vastly surprised to see us. I addressed Barbara in my grandest manner giving her at the same time a glance that she understood plainly enough.

“Barbara,” I said, “Master Dacre is escorting me to my father’s house, but before we go forward we will refresh ourselves if you can make shift to give us food and drink. You will not refuse to dine with me, Anthony,” I said, turning to him with a smile that was meant to subdue him.

Now it is marvellous--and never so much so, I think, as to us women ourselves--that a woman’s beauty and manner hath power to change a man from his purpose more rapidly than any other form of persuasion. As I looked at Anthony Dacre I knew that I could do with him as I pleased. He mumbled something in the way of a compliment that I scarcely heard, though I affected to do so, and smiled back my thanks to him for it. He was won over--but oh, the anxiety that I still felt lest my plans should miscarry!

While Barbara prepared food and drink for us, I went over the house under pretence of making myself ready for our further progress. It was a sad sight that my eyes beheld. The upper storey of the house had been well-nigh shattered to pieces, and the room in which my uncle died was a heap of stones and dust. But my own chamber was undisturbed, and thither I presently repaired and made such alterations in my apparel as were sorely needed. Nay, when I looked at myself in the mirror I marvelled that I had been able to make any impression on Anthony Dacre, for my adventures of that day and the previous night had made me anything but attractive. Now it was necessary (beauty being the greatest weapon which we women can arm ourselves and aid our natural cunning with) that I should make myself as attractive as possible, and so I gave some considerable attention to my toilet, and at last went downstairs to find Anthony Dacre, and proceed with the development of my plans.

I found him in the small parlour that adjoined the hall, where Barbara had contrived a hasty meal for us. He looked at me with some astonishment as I entered, and I noticed as I returned his glance that he, too, had taken some pains to smarten himself up. I walked to the head of the table, and motioned him to take a seat at my right hand. But he came forward and took my hand as if to lead me to my chair, and no sooner did his fingers touch mine than he broke out into the most extravagant profession of love for me, swearing by all that is holy that he adored me in the most devoted fashion, and beseeching me to have some pity on his condition. All this I was compelled to endure and even to affect to receive with complaisance, though inwardly I was filled with two thoughts--the first, that I could cheerfully have stabbed him where he stood; the second, that he was playing into my hands. I heard him to the end, and then I disengaged my hand from his and drew away from him.

“Cousin,” I said, “this is not the time or place for us to discuss these matters. It is possible,” I said, looking at him, “that I have been mistaken in you, as you say, and if so, I am indeed sorry, and will strive to make amends. But I think it will be best if you accompany me to my father’s house, and there prosecute your suit--if indeed, you really feel for me what you say--after the fashion usual amongst people of our degree. You must speak to my father first,” says I, with a coquettish glance at him that made him ready to obey me on the instant.

“But yourself?” said he. “What answer will you make to me if I fulfil your wishes in this?”

“Why,” I said, looking, I daresay, very modest and conscious, “I think that if you really obey me, I may perhaps be found more complaisant than you have fancied, cousin.”

“My angel!” he cried, and would have embraced me had I not anticipated some such proceeding on his part and escaped him.

“Come,” I said, smiling, “let us have some food, cousin--we have a long ride before us, and for myself I have had little to eat since last night.”

He took his seat near me, and I occupied myself in paying him much attention, and seeing to his comfort. As for me, it well-nigh choked me to eat a crumb of bread; but, lest he should observe that I was anxious or pre-occupied, I forced myself to make a hearty meal. Barbara had furnished the table with a flask of my uncle’s old Tokay, and more than once I filled Anthony’s glass with my own hands. What a comedy it all was, and yet what a tragedy seemed to be playing itself out in my heart at the time!

When at last he would eat and drink no more, I approached the subject that lay closest to my thoughts. “Now,” thought I, “Heaven send me strength and wit to carry out my project!” And I think my prayer must have been answered quickly, for I spoke with calmness, though every nerve in my body seemed to me to quiver with anxiety and apprehension.

“Cousin,” I said, “what will they do with Richard Coope?”

He looked at me narrowly. I could see that the mere question raised his jealousy and distrust on the instant.

“They will shoot him,” he answered, keeping his eyes on mine.

“I supposed they would,” said I, affecting a rare carelessness. “Poor Dick! But ’tis I suppose, the fortune of war, eh, cousin?”

“’Tis the treatment always meted out to deserters and traitors,” he said.

“Well,” said I, “’tis a pity that a kinsman of ours should die a shameful death, is it not, cousin?”

“It is not to the credit of the family,” he answered. “But an offender against the cause must be punished.”

“Why,” I said, “I think Dick offended under some misapprehension, and ’tis rather a pity that he should die for that when you and I, cousin, have been so fortunate as to clear away our own misunderstanding. Could we do nothing to save him from so violent a death?”

“No,” he said, “naught. By this time it is probably over.”

It was only by the strongest effort that I was able to preserve my composure when he said that. I affected to take no particular heed of it.

“I wish we could have saved him,” I said presently. “I fear my father will visit his displeasure upon both of us for our neglect to say a word in Dick’s favour. He thinks so much of family ties, cousin. But I trust he may not, for I do not wish you to meet with a frown from him when you conduct me home, under the--the circumstances that you spoke of a little time ago,” said I, giving him a sly glance.

“I would do aught to please you, cousin,” he exclaimed. “But in this matter of Dick Coope, what can I do, even if he be still alive, which I question? I have no influence with Fairfax.”

“You must surely have some,” I replied. “One who has rendered such service.”

“Why, I may have some slight claim upon him,” he said. “But come, cousin, what signifies Dick Coope--let us talk of ourselves.”

“Dear Anthony,” said I, “we shall have so much time for that afterwards, and i’ faith I am concerned about Dick--though indeed I have no cause to trouble myself about him, seeing that he and I could never abide one another’s presence--for the reason that my father and our relations will be sore vexed at his death. And I am so anxious that naught should occur to vex my father at this time,” I added, looking significantly at him, “that if it were in my power I would do something to save Dick, and get him out of the country. Is there aught that we could do in that way, cousin?”

“I won’t say that something might not be done,” said he. “I might contrive his escape if he still lives.”

“I would give something if that were done,” said I. “Why, that’s noble and generous in you, cousin! Come, I think the more of you for that. But is the thing possible?”

“There are three things that would make it so,” said he, looking narrowly at me.

“And what are they, cousin?” I enquired.

“Why,” said he, “first, if he’s still alive; second, if there’s money in the house to secure his release; and third, if you will reward me for my efforts on his behalf.”

“I reward you?” said I, affecting a great surprise. “How can I reward you, cousin?”

“By bestowing yourself upon me without delay, fair cousin!” he cried, throwing himself at my feet and seizing my hand.

“Why,” said I, affecting a pretty confusion, “I thought that I had already given you some promise of the sort--but ‘without delay’ sounds so formidable--will not a year hence suit you, cousin?” I said.

“A year hence? ’Tis an age--a century!” he exclaimed, possessing himself of both my hands. “It must be at once--I cannot endure my passion to remain unsatisfied, fair coz; indeed, I love thee so much.”

“I could do much for a man that gratified my whim,” said I.

“And by heaven,” said he, “I will gratify it if I’m in time! Promise me, cousin, that you’ll marry me to-night, and I’ll save Dick Coope--that is,” he said, with a sudden caution, “if he’s yet alive, and if you can find me money for the enterprise.”

“But to-night?” said I, much confused. “Oh, cousin--why, was ever aught so sudden? Let us say a month hence, or a fortnight.”

“No,” he said, “to-night--this very night. I will bring a clergyman with me.”

“I am so taken aback,” I said. “Let us say a week hence, cousin.”

“No,” he said. “A week? ’Tis a lifetime--you must make me the happiest of men to-night if I do this for you. Come, yes or no, coz?”

“Why,” said I, looking away from him, “you deserve to be rewarded for your enterprise, Master Anthony, so I will say yes. But--nay,” I said, as he made as if to embrace me, “let us defer all that until we have some leisure--bethink you what there is to do. We must bestir ourselves if you really mean to win me for your own ere to-morrow morning. What is our bargain, cousin? That you are to rescue Dick Coope and bring him here, and that I am then to reward you with my hand?”

“And your heart,” said he, still pressing me with his attentions.

“Why, of course,” said I, and laughed. “Come, cousin, let us sit down and make our arrangements,” and I contrived to keep the table between us. “Now, first,” I said, giving him the bag of gold which Dick had handed to me when we were caught by the troopers, “there is money for your needs in this matter. Now let us settle all other things. First, you are to set out forthwith for Pomfret and busy yourself about Dick’s escape. You will, I suppose, bribe those that have him in charge?”

“Leave that to me,” he answered, with a chuckle. “I know a trick or two of that sort.”

“I am sure of it,” said I. “Then you are to bring him here so that he can be furnished with money for his journey out of the country.”

“Must he come here?” said he. “If I manage his escape----”

“Why, to tell you the truth, cousin,” said I, “I want to see him for a good reason. Sir Nicholas on his death-bed confided to Dick a secret as to the hiding of some considerable treasure, and I want to have it out of him. He cannot refuse to tell me after what we have done for him,” I said.

“He shall be brought here,” he answered.

“And when will you return with him?” I said.

“Why,” said he, musingly, “I have a plan, and if it goes as I think it will, it will be within an hour after midnight.”

“Then I will expect you, cousin,” said I. I paused a moment, and then looked at him in a shy fashion. “And you will bring a clergyman with you?” I said, striving, and I hope with some success, to counterfeit a becoming modesty.

“Assuredly I will!” he cried.

“Then go, dear Anthony,” I said. “But stay, there are two other matters--I do not like the notion,” I said, looking about me with an air of distaste, “of spending my wedding night in this house--could not we ride to your own house at Foxclough immediately after the ceremony? I should find that much to be preferred, cousin.”

“Why,” said he, “’tis a ten mile ride--and the old place is but poorly furnished--but since you wish it, cousin, I will despatch one of my men with strict orders to have it prepared for our reception during the night.”

“And your other man?” said I, “will you leave him here to protect me?--old Jasper is but a poor guard, and there is no one but Barbara and myself in the house.”

“Agreed,” said he. “And now I must hasten--egad, the time will go but slow till I return with the parson, fair coz!”

“Hasten!” said I, “you must fulfil your bargain if you would gain your prize. Nay,” I said, seeing that he was minded to embrace me, “lose no time, cousin--I shall be impatient for your return,” and I gave him a smile as he went out of the door that was intended to encourage him. I watched him across the kitchen and saw that he spoke to the two men; then he rode out of the courtyard and I returned to the parlour, calling Barbara to attend me there. And we had no sooner entered and closed the door than I swooned, the excitement of the scene I had just gone through proving too much for me to bear any longer.

“This will not do,” I said when Barbara had brought me round, and I sat up feeling somewhat recovered. “There is still much that I must undertake.” I began to plot and plan afresh, telling old Barbara sufficient of what was going on to explain my anxiety to her. Truly I was by that time in a sad condition, for there was first the fear lest Dick should already be beyond my help, and second, the thought that my plans should miscarry ere they could be worked out as I wished. “’Tis a desperate game,” I said to myself, “Heaven help me to play it to the end and give me success!” And therewith I began to consider my next movement.

Now so far as matters had turned out I had nothing to regret, and last of all, the seeming deception which I had practised on Anthony Dacre. It may seem to you who read this narrative that I had played upon him in the vilest and most heartless fashion by promising to marry him. But there was no deception in it, save on his side, for all the time that he spoke with me of marriage he was in reality meditating my ruin. I knew what he did not know that I knew--namely, that he was already married. I had come to know it by the most curious chance. Soon after Sir Nicholas Coope fell ill and took to his bed, there came to see him old Master Drumbleforth, a neighbouring clergyman, who chanced to inform him that he had married Anthony Dacre to one of his parishioners some few years previously, and that the woman still lived, though sore neglected by her husband. And I think it was because of knowing this that I felt it neither heartless nor deceitful to treat Anthony as I