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.”