Part 7 (2/2)

”Faith!” admitted Sir John, ”the rogue had his good points.”

”Ah, John, you have not forgotten, I know,” the lady said, looking up into his face, ”and, you will believe me that I am very heartily sorry for the pain I brought into your life?”

”My wounds heal easily,” said Sir John.

”For though my dear dead father was too wise for us, and knew it was for the best that I should not accept your love, believe me, John, I always knew the value of that love, and have held it an honor that any woman must prize.”

”Dear lady,” the knight suggested, with a slight grimace, ”the world is not altogether of your opinion.”

”I know not of the world,” she said; ”for we live away from it. But we have heard of you ever and anon; I have your life quite letter-perfect for these forty years or more.”

”You have heard of me?” asked Sir John; and, for a seasoned knave, he looked rather uncomfortable.

”As a gallant and brave soldier,” she answered; ”of how you fought at sea with Mowbray that was afterward Duke of Norfolk; of your knighthood by King Richard; of how you slew the Percy at Shrewsbury; and captured Coleville o' late in Yorks.h.i.+re; and how the Prince, that now is King, did love you above all men; and, in fine, of many splendid doings in the great world.”

Sir John raised a protesting hand. He said, with commendable modesty: ”I have fought somewhat. But we are not Bevis of Southampton; we have slain no giants. Heard you naught else?”

”Little else of note,” replied the lady; and went on, very quietly: ”But we are proud of you at home in Norfolk. And such tales as I have heard I have woven together in one story; and I have told it many times to my children as we sat on the old Chapel steps at evening, and the shadows lengthened across the lawn, and I bid them emulate this, the most perfect knight and gallant gentleman that I have known. And they love you, I think, though but by repute.”

Once more silence fell between them; and the fire grinned wickedly at the mimic fire reflected by the old chest, as though it knew of a most entertaining secret.

”Do you yet live at Winstead?” asked Sir John, half idly.

”Yes,” she answered; ”in the old house. It is little changed, but there are many changes about.”

”Is Moll yet with you that did once carry our letters?”

”Married to Hodge, the tanner,” the lady said; ”and dead long since.”

”And all our merry company?” Sir John demanded. ”Marian? And Tom and little Osric? And Phyllis? And Adelais? Zounds, it is like a breath of country air to speak their names once more.”

”All dead,” she answered, in a hushed voice, ”save Adelais, and even to me poor Adelais seems old and strange. Walter was slain in the French wars, and she hath never married.”

”All dead,” Sir John informed the fire, as if confidentially; then he laughed, though his bloodshot eyes were not merry. ”This same Death hath a wide maw! It is not long before you and I, my lady, will be at supper with the worms. But you, at least, have had a happy life.”

”I have been content enough,” she said, ”but all that seems run by; for, John, I think that at our age we are not any longer very happy nor very miserable.”

”Faith!” agreed Sir John, ”we are both old; and I had not known it, my lady, until to-day.”

Again there was silence; and again the fire leapt with delight at the jest.

Sylvia Vernon arose suddenly and cried, ”I would I had not come!”

Then said Sir John: ”Nay, this is but a feeble grieving you have wakened.

For, madam--you whom I loved once!--you are in the right. Our blood runs thinner than of yore; and we may no longer, I think, either sorrow or rejoice very deeply.”

”It is true,” she said; ”but I must go; and, indeed, I would to G.o.d I had not come!”

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