[Sidenote: French Leave]

But there were, besides the men that died n.o.bly in a mistaken struggle for religious freedom, others that joined the army from mean and ign.o.ble motives, and others again that had not the courage to go through with that which they had begun, but turned coward and traitor at the last.

Of one of them I am now to write, and I will say of him no more evil than must be.

How I, that had fled away from the part of the country where this trouble was, before its beginning, became mixed in it was strange enough.

I had, as I said, run away to escape from the match that my father proposed for me; and yet it was not from any dislike of Tom Windham, the neighbour's son with whom I was to have mated, that I did this; but chiefly from a dislike that I had to settle in the place where I had been bred; for I thought myself weary of a country life and the little town whither we went to market; and I desired to see somewhat of life in a great city and the gaiety stirring there.

There dwelt in London a cousin of my mother, whose husband was a mercer, and who had visited us a year before--when she was newly married--and pressed me to go back with her.

"La!" she had said to me, "I know not how you endure this life, where there is nothing to do but to listen for the gra.s.s growing and the flowers opening. 'Twould drive me mad in a month."

Then she told me of the joyous racket of a great city, and the gay shows and merry sports to be had there. But my father would not permit me to go with her.

However, I resolved to ask no leave when the question of my marriage came on; and so, without more ado, I slipped away by the first occasion that came, when my friends were least suspecting it, and, leaving only a message writ on paper to bid them have no uneasiness, for I knew how to take care of myself, I contrived, after sundry adventures, to reach London.

I arrived at an ill time, for there was sickness in the house of my cousin Alstree. However, she made me welcome as well as might be, and wrote to my father suddenly of my whereabouts. My father being sore displeased at the step I had taken, sent me word by the next messenger that came that way that I might even stay where I had put myself.

So now I had all my desire, and should have been content; but matters did not turn out as I had expected. There might be much gaiety in the town; but I saw little of it. My cousin was occupied with her own concerns, having now a sickly baby to turn her mind from thoughts of her own diversion; her husband was a sour-tempered man; and the prentices that were in the house were ill-mannered and ill-bred.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GALLANTS LOUNGING IN THE PARK.]

There was in truth a Court no farther away than Whitehall. I saw gallants lounging and talking together in the Park, games on the Mall, and soldiers and horses in the streets and squares; but none of these had any concern with me.

The news of the Duke's landing was brought to London while I was still at my cousin's, but it made the less stir in her household because of the sickness there; and presently a new and grievous trouble fell upon us. My cousin Alstree was stricken with the small-pox, and in five days she and her baby were both dead. The house seemed no longer a fit place for me, and her husband was as one distracted; yet I had nowhere else to go to.

It was then that a woman whom I had seen before and liked little came to my a.s.sistance. Her name was Elizabeth Gaunt.

She was an Anabaptist and, as I thought, fanatical. She spent her life in good works, and cared nothing for dress, or food, or pleasure. Her manner to me had been stern, and I thought her poor and of no account; for what money she had was given mostly to others. But when she knew of my trouble she offered me a place in her house, bargaining only that I should help her in the work of it.

"My maid that I had has left me to be married," she said; "'twould be waste to hire another while you sit idle."

I was in too evil a plight to be particular, so that I went with her willingly. And this I must confess, that the tasks she set me were irksome enough, but yet I was happier with her than I had been with my cousin Alstree, for I had the less time for evil and regretful thoughts.

Now it befell that one night, when we were alone together, there came a knocking at the house door.

[Sidenote: A Strange Visitor]

I went to open it, and found a tall man standing on the threshold. I was used to those that came to seek charity, who were mostly women or children, the poor, the sick, or the old. But this man, as I saw by the light I carried with me, was st.u.r.dy and well built; moreover, the cloak that was wrapped about him was neither ragged or ill-made, only the hat that he had upon his head was crushed in the brim.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, and this frightened me somewhat, for we were two lone women, and the terror of my country breeding clung to me. There was, it is true, nothing in the house worth stealing, but yet a stranger might not know this.

"Doth Mrs. Gaunt still live in this house?" he asked. "Is she not a woman that is very, charitable and ready to help those that are in trouble?"

I looked at him, wondering what his trouble might be, for he seemed well-to-do and comfortable, except for the hat-brim. Yet he spoke with urgency, and it flashed upon me that his need might not be for himself, but another.

I was about to answer him when he, whose eye had left me to wander round the narrow pa.s.sage where we were, caught sight of a rim of light under a doorway.

"Is she in that chamber, and alone? What, then, are you afraid of?" he asked, with impatience. "Do you think I would hurt a good creature like that?"

"You would be a cruel wretch, indeed, to do it," I answered, plucking up a little spirit, "for she lives only to show kindness to others."

"So I have been told. 'Tis the same woman," and without more ado he stalked past me to the door of her room, where she sat reading a Bible as her custom was; so he opened it and went in.

I stood without in the pa.s.sage, trembling still a little, and uncertain of his purpose, yet remembering his words and the horror he had shown at the thought of doing any hurt to my mistress. I said to myself that he could not be a wicked man, and that there was nothing to fear. But, well-a-day, well-a-day, we know not what is before us, nor the evil that we shall do before we die. Of a surety the man that I let in that night had no thought of what he should do; yet he came in the end to do it, and even to justify the doing of it.

I waited outside, as I have said, and the sound of voices came to me. I thought to myself once, "Shall I go nearer and listen?" though it was only for my mistress's sake that I considered it, being no eavesdropper.

But I did not go, and in so abstaining I was kept safe in the greatest danger I have been in throughout my life. For if I had heard and known, my fate might have been like hers; and should I have had the strength to endure it?

In a little time the door opened and she came out alone. Her face was paler even than ordinary, and she gave a start on seeing me stand there.

"Child," she said, "have you heard what pa.s.sed between us on the other side of that door?"

I answered that I had not heard a word; and then she beckoned me to follow her into the kitchen.

When we were alone there I put down my candle on the deal table, and stood still while she looked at me searchingly. I could see that there was more in her manner than I understood.

"Child," she said, "I have had to trust you before when I have given help to those in trouble, and you have not been wanting in discretion; yet you are but a child to trust."

"If you tell me nothing I can repeat nothing," I answered proudly.

"Yet you know something already. Can you keep silent entirely and under all circ.u.mstances as to what has happened since you opened the street door?"

"It is not my custom to gabble about your affairs."

"Will you seek to learn no more and to understand no more?"

"I desire to know nothing of the affairs of others, if they do not choose to tell me of their own free will."

She looked at me and sighed a little, at the which I marvelled somewhat, for it was ever her custom to trust in G.o.d and so to go forward without question.

"You are young and ill prepared for trial, yet you have wandered alone--silly la.s.sie that you are--into a wilderness of wolves."

"There is trouble everywhere," I answered.

"And danger too," she said; "but there is trouble that we seek for ourselves, and trouble that G.o.d sends to us. You will do well, when you are safe at home, to wander no more. Now go to bed and rest."

"Shall I not get a meal for your guest?" I asked; for I was well aware that the man had not yet left the house.

[Sidenote: "Ask no Questions!"]

"Do my bidding and ask no questions," she said, more sternly than was her custom. So I took my candle and went away silently, she following me to my chamber. When I was there she bid me pray to G.o.d for all who were in danger and distress, then I heard that she turned the key upon me on the outside and went away.

I undressed with some sullenness, being ill-content at the mistrust she showed; but presently she came to the chamber herself, and prayed long before she lay down beside me.