The Admirable Lady Biddy Fane Part 52

"Lord love you, master," says he, "that will I with all my heart, be it anywhere in the world."

So we secretly fitted out a s.h.i.+p, and got all ready for the venture I had in my mind; and there was nothing left to do but to bid my dear lady farewell, which was the thing I dreaded woefully, yet saw no way of avoiding. However, the night before I designed to set sail, my uncle undertook to break the news to my lady lightly, as if 'twere a sudden whimsey that possessed me.

The next morning as I sat in my cabin, looking at the card which was to guide me to Campeachy, but my eye wandering from that part to the wilderness where the sweetest moments of my existence had been pa.s.sed, my lady came on board, and ere I knew it stole to my side.

"Is that where you are going, Benet?" says she, leaning over my shoulder.

"Ay," says I, stammering like a fool; "Sir Bartlemy has told you?"

 

"Yes," says she, "and I've come to know where you mean to bestow your little comrade."

"My little comrade?" says I, choking with despair; "I have none."

"What's become of the little comrade?" asks she.

I could make no reply save by putting my finger on the map where, as I guessed, we had encountered the party sent to meet us, and my little comrade had put off her stripling's dress and donned her gown again.

"Your little comrade," says she, bending over me till her glowing cheek was side by side with mine--"your little comrade has changed her dress, but not her heart, Benet. The little comrade who saw you striving to be a brother, knew you to be a lover, and liked you none the less because you failed. To hide your love was an effort; to hide mine a grief. Now you know why I was dull, Benet. I was sick of love, dear--sick of love."

And with that she laid her cheek to mine, and such rapture seized me that I knew not what I did.

Yet presently a sudden recollection chilled me, and I said with a groan, "Smidmore!"

"Smidmore!" says she, her pretty brows creasing in anger and her lip curling with scorn. "Hast not my uncle told you of his treachery?"

"His treachery!" said I in amaze--"never a word."

"'Tis because he would hide the weakness and shame of a man he had taken for a friend. When he found we were gone from England he gave himself up to the flattery of his friends; and instead of following us to our help, as we followed him, is paying his court to another. But why should I be vexed with him?" says she, her face melting with sweet kindness; "for, sure, no troth should bind us when we cease to love. And, in truth, dear Benet, had he been constant I must have broken my pledge, having no love but for you, dear--no love but for you. Take me, sweetheart," adds she, stretching forth her hands, "or else I die an old maid."

THE END.