I will not write of all the things we spoke about during that long journey. Enough to say that she had escaped from the king's palace as my father had told me, and had made her way to Goodlands, which she entered by a secret known only to herself, and to the faithful farmer who occupied the kitchen part of the house and looked after the Goodlands estate. Here she was able to remain unmolested. The entrance to the house, she told me, was by a secret underground passage, the opening of which could only be discovered with great difficulty. Here, moreover, were rooms in which her forefathers had been hidden in the days of Queen Mary, the secret of which had defied all searchers. It was here she had hidden Father Solomon, whose real name was John Walters, and her sister Dorcas, and it was from here she had sent her sister to Holland to meet her husband.
She told me, moreover, that this old man, who claimed to be the father of Lucy Walters, had been driven wellnigh mad because of his daughter's shame, and that he had left his wife because she encouraged her child in her evil ways. He had, moreover, become friendly with Sir Charles Denman, who had given him the right to live in the lonely house. For years he had been a student of the occult sciences, in order, he said, to find out the hiding place of the marriage contract between his daughter and the king, and it was here that her sister came, after she, in a fit of religious frenzy, had sought to take the life of General Monk.
Constance told me, moreover, that she had been taught to fear this old man; yet did she visit him for her sister's sake, on the night when we first met. Whether the marriage contract was genuine, or whether it had been forged by the old man or no, she could not tell, neither did she know where he was now. Directly after her sister had escaped to Holland, he also had disappeared; but before he went he declared that he would yet see his daughter owned as the king's wife, while her son should be king of England.
But it was not these things which troubled me as I walked by Constance's side that dark night in March. I was thinking rather of my great love for her, and how I could take her from the hands of her enemies. For she was now all alone in the world. Her father was dead, hanged by the king, while her sister had rejoined her husband, a man whom Constance regarded with fear and anger.
Although she had stayed long at Goodlands, she felt that her stay there must soon come to an end. She could not live much longer under such circumstances, especially as she felt sure that she was suspected of being hidden in the house.
Of the love we confessed one to another I will not write, for that is not the affair of those who may read this; but that she did love me I did not doubt. How could I doubt it when for me she had defied the king? How could I doubt after the way she had sobbed out her love for me in Master John Day's cottage?
Thus it was that the long walk was to me a joy beyond words. At last my love was by my side, and so I did not dread the dark clouds that hung in our sky, I did not fear the enemies which beset her on every hand.
"There is nought for us to fear," I said to her, for at that moment everything seemed possible to me.
"Oh, I have prayed for this so long, so earnestly," she said. "That night when we stood before the king, I wanted to tell you what was in my heart, but—but—" and then she told me again what my heart was hungering to hear.
"We cannot stay in England," I said, "but we can go across the seas, and make a home in New England, even as your Puritan forefathers did. Will you, Constance?"