Part 19 (2/2)

”There now, Chris, he is as quiet as a sheep again. Now take him at it.”

”What does he want?” asked Anthony. ”I can scarcely see for the dust.”

”Why, he's practising at the quintain;--ah! ah!” she cried out again, as the quintain was missed and swung round with a hard buffet on the man's back as he tore past. ”Going to market, Chris? You've got a st.u.r.dy shepherd behind you. Baa, baa, black sheep.”

”Who's that?” asked Anthony, as the tall horseman, as if driven by the storm of contumely from the window, disappeared towards the stable.

”Why that's Chris Hatton--whom the Queen calls her sheep, and he's as silly as one, too, with his fool's face and his bleat and his great eyes.

He trots about after her Grace, too, like a pet lamb. Bah! I'm sick of him. That's enough of the a.s.s; tell me about Isabel.”

Then they fell to talking about Isabel; and Mary eyed him as he answered her questions.

”Then she isn't a Papist, yet?” she asked.

Anthony's face showed such consternation that she burst out laughing.

”There, there, there!” she cried. ”No harm's done. Then that tall lad, who was away last time I was there--well, I suppose he's not turned Protestant?”

Anthony's face was still more bewildered.

”Why, my dear lad,” she said, ”where are your eyes?”

”Mistress Corbet,” he burst out at last, ”I do not know what you mean.

Hubert has been in Durham for years. There is no talk----” and he stopped.

Mary's face became sedate again.

”Well, well,” she said, ”I always was a tattler. It seems I am wrong again. Forgive me, Master Anthony.”

Anthony was indeed astonished at her fantastic idea. Of course he knew that Hubert had once been fond of Isabel, but that was years ago, when they had been all children together. Why, he reflected, he too had been foolish once--and he blushed a little.

Then they went on to talk of Great Keynes, Sir Nicholas, and Mr.

Stewart's arrest and death; and Mary asked Anthony to excuse her interest in such matters, but Papistry had always been her religion, and what could a poor girl do but believe what she was taught? Then they went on to speak of more recent affairs, and Mary made him describe to her his life at Lambeth, and everything he did from the moment he got up to the moment he went to bed again; and whether the Archbishop was a kind master, and how long they spent at prayers, and how many courses they had at dinner; and Anthony grew more and more animated and confidential--she was so friendly and interested and pretty, as she leaned towards him and questioned and listened, and the faint scent of violet from her dress awakened his old memories of her.

And then at last she approached the subject on which she had chiefly wished to see him--which was that he should speak to the steward at Lambeth on behalf of a young man who was to be dismissed, it seemed, from the Archbishop's service, because his sister had lately turned Papist and fled to a convent abroad. It was a small matter; and Anthony readily promised to do his best, and, if necessary, to approach the Archbishop himself: and Mistress Corbet was profusely grateful.

They had hardly done talking of the matter, when a trumpet blew suddenly somewhere away behind the building they were in. Mary held up a white finger and put her head on one side.

”That will be the Amba.s.sador,” she said.

Anthony looked at her interrogatively.

”Why, you country lad!” she said, ”come and see.”

She jumped up, and he followed her down the gallery, and along through interminable corridors and ante-chambers, and up and down the stairs of this enormous palace; and Anthony grew bewildered and astonished as he went at the doors on all sides, and the roofs that ranged themselves every way as he looked out. And at last Mary stopped at a window, and pointed out.

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