Mademoiselle had meantime spoken never a word, but had risen and gone to her father’s chair and put her arms around his neck. Her presence seemed to cheer the old man, for he ceased mourning and looked up, while she sat, still as a statue, with her grave, lovely face against his. But Master Semple’s grief was pitiful to witness. He rocked himself to and fro in his chair, with his arms folded and a set, white face. Every now and then he would break into a cry like a stricken animal. The elder man was the first to counsel patience.
“Stop, Henry,” says he; “it’s ill-befitting Christian folk to set sic an example. We’ve a’ got our troubles, and if ours are heavier than some, it’s no’ for us to complain. Think o’ the many years o’ grace we’ve had. There’s nae doubt the Lord will look after the bairn, for he’s a guid Shepherd for the feckless.”
But now of a sudden a thought seemed to strike Henry, and he was on his feet in a twinkling and by my side.
“John,” he almost screamed in my ear, “John, I’m going to ask ye for the greatest service that ever man asked. Ye’ll no’ say me nay?”
“Let me hear it,” said I.
“Will you bide wi’ the lass? You’re a man o’ birth, and I’ll swear to it, a man o’ honor. I can trust you as I would trust my ain brither. Oh, man, dinna deny me! It’s the last hope I ha’e, for if ye refuse, we maun e’en gang to the hills and leave the puir thing alane. Oh, ye canna say me nae! Tell me that ye’ll do my asking.”
I was so thunderstruck at the request that I scarce could think for some minutes. Consider, was it not a strange thing to be asked to stay alone in a wild moorland house with another man’s betrothed, for Heaven knew how many weary days? My life and prospects were none so cheerful for me to despise anything, nor so varied that I might pick and choose; but yet ’twas dreary, if no worse, to look forward to any length of time in this desolate place. I was grateful for the house as a shelter by the way, yet I hoped to push on and get rid, as soon as might be, of this accursed land.
But was I not bound by all the ties of gratitude to grant my host’s request? They had found me fainting at their door, they had taken me in, and treated me to their best; I was bound in common honor to do something to requite their kindness. And let me add, though not often a man subject to any feelings of compassion, whatever natural bent I had this way having been spoiled in the wars, I nevertheless could not refrain from pitying the distress of that strong man before me. I felt tenderly toward him, more so than I had felt to anyone for many a day.
All these thoughts raced through my head in the short time while Master Henry stood before me. The look in his eyes, the pained face of the old man, and the sight of Anne, so fair and helpless, fixed my determination.
“I am bound to you in gratitude,” said I, “and I would seek to repay you. I will bide in the house, if so you will, and be the maid’s protector. God grant I may be faithful to my trust, and may he send a speedy end to your exile?”
So ’twas all finished in a few minutes, and I was fairly embarked upon the queerest enterprise of my life. For myself I sat dazed and meditative; as for the minister and Master Semple, one-half of the burden seemed to be lifted from their minds. I was amazed at the trusting natures of these men, who had habited all their days with honest folk till they conceived all to be as worthy as themselves. I felt, I will own, a certain shrinking from the responsibility of the task; but the Rubicon had been crossed and there was no retreat.
Of the rest of that night how shall I tell? There was such a bustling and pother as I had never seen in any house since the day that my brother Denis left Rohaine for the Dutch wars. There was a running and scurrying about, a packing of food, a seeking of clothes, for the fugitives must be off before the first light. Anne went about with a pale, tearful face; and ’twas a matter of no surprise, for to see a father, a man frail and fallen in years, going out to the chill moorlands in the early autumn till no man knew when, is a grievous thing for a young maid. Her lover was scarce in so dire a case, for he was young and strong, and well used to the life of the hills. For him there was hope; for the old man but a shadow. My heart grew as bitter as gall at the thought of the villains who brought it about.
How shall I tell of the morning, when the faint light was flushing the limits of the sky, and the first call of a heath-bird broke the silence! ’Twas sad to see these twain with their bundles (the younger carrying the elder’s share) creep through the heather toward the hills. They affected a cheerful resolution, assumed to comfort Anne’s fears and sorrow;
