Joan Grant, in the middle of the chatter9, edged her mare10 near to a sprightly11 horse-woman who had just dismissed Michael with a playful tap of her whip across his cheek.
"You are Miss Bingham? Ah, I guessed it."
"By what token?"
"By your beauty, shall we say? Gossip has so much to tell about it, and about the Vicarage garden, with Nidd River swirling13 past the ferry-steps."
They eyed each other with the wariness14 of duellists. "The good Vicar is fortunate in his garden," assented15 Miss Bingham, with the most charming courtesy.
"And in his water-nymphs, 'twould seem. I think you would be like some comely16 dream—on an April evening, say, with the young leafage of the trees for halo."
"Oh, it is pleasant to be flattered! But why this praise of me? We were strangers not an hour ago."
"I have heard so much of you. You were so kind to the men who sortied from Knaresborough and returned with wounds. You sat by the ferry-steps—all like a good angel—and bound their hurts afresh when they smarted. Oh, indeed, we have heard of your pleasant skill in healing."
While they faced each other, there came the thud and racket of horse-hoofs down the road. The rider drew rein17 amid a swirl12 of dust, cleared his eyes with a hand that trembled, and looked from one face to another. His tired face lit up when at last he saw the Governor of Knaresborough.
"Give you good-day, sir. I was riding to seek aid from you."
"The devil you were," growled18 the other. "The man sups lean who trusts to my help, Graham. Knaresborough's in other hands since—since Marston."
"It would be. I had forgotten that. But you're here."
"What is your need, lad?"
"A few men to help me, over at Norton Conyers. I rode to ask if you could lend them me."
"All of us, if we're needed. We were jesting on the road here, for lack of other occupation. What is it? But, first, is your uncle safe—tough Reginald Graham? I love him as I love the steep rock-face of Knaresborough."
"It was this way. My uncle would have me near him at Marston. We were with Rupert on the right wing, and were close behind one of the Riding Metcalfs—I know not which, for they're all big men and as like as two peas in a pod—and saw him cut Cromwell through the throat. We were together when we broke the Roundheads and pursued too far. It was when we came to the ditch again, and found Leslie there with his Scots, that I lost Sir Reginald. I took a wound or two in the stampede that followed, and was laid by in a little farmstead near Wilstrop Wood. The good-wife was kind to me—said she had lost a bairn of her own not long since, trampled19 down by flying horsemen at the gate."
"Ay, lad; but why d'ye not get forward with your news of Sir Reginald?"
"Because I cannot trust myself to speak of him without some folly20 in my throat. Give me time, sir—give me time. I got about again in a day or two, and stumbled home somehow to Norton Conyers. And I—I met a black procession—all like a nightmare, it was—journeying to the kirkyard. So I joined them; and one man nudged another, and asked who this was coming in his tatters to the burial without mourning-gear. And I pointed21 to my wounds and laughed. 'Mourning-gear enough,' said I. 'Mourners go in blood and tatters since Marston.' And then, they tell me, I fell, and lay where I fell. That was all I knew, till I got up next day with all my limbs on fire."
There was silence among those looking on—a deep and reverent22 silence. This youngster, out of battle and great pain, had captured some right-of-way to the attention of strong men.
"When I was about again, they told me how it chanced. Sir Reginald took a mortal hurt at Marston, but rode with the best of his strength to Norton Conyers. He found Lady Graham at the gate, waiting for news of him; and he stooped from saddle, so they say, and kissed her. 'I could not die away from you, wife,' he said."
"Ay," growled the Governor, "he was like that—a hard fighter, and a lover so devout23 that his wife had reason to be proud."
"She tried to help him get from horse; but he shook his head. 'The stairs are wide enough,' was all his explanation. Then he rode in at the main door and up the stair, and bent24 his head low to enter the big bed-chamber. He got from the saddle to the bed, lay with his eyes on fire with happiness, and so died."
"A good ending," said the Squire25 of Nappa roughly, because he dared not give his feelings play. "What I should call a gentleman's ending—leal to King and wife. Oh, you young fool, no need to make a tragedy about it!"
Graham answered gamely to the taunt26 that braced27 him. "As for that, sir, tragedy is in the making, if no help comes to Norton Conyers. We had word this morning that a company of Roundheads was marching on the Hall—the worst of the whole brood—those who robbed the dead and dying in Wilstrop Wood."
It was not the Governor of Knaresborough who took command. Without pause for thought of precedence, Squire Metcalf lifted his voice.
"A Mecca for the King, and bustle28 about the business, lads!"
The road no longer showed like a meeting-place where idle gentry29 foregathered to pass the time of day. The Governor, with some envy underlying30 all his admiration31, saw the Metcalfs swing into line behind their leader.
"Our horses are fresh," explained the Squire over shoulder, with a twinge of punctilio. "Do you follow, sir, and guard the women-folk."
"I shall guard them," said the Governor, laughing quietly.
Miss Bingham saw Joan watching the dust swirl and eddy32 in the wake of the Riding Metcalfs, saw that the girl's face was petulant33 and wistful. "He did not pause to say good-bye," she said, with gentlest sympathy.
"I did not ask him to."
"But, indeed, men are fashioned in that mould. I am older than you, child."
"So much is granted," said Joan sharply.
"And women are fashioned in their mould, too, with feet of velvet34 and the hidden claws. Yes, I am older. You drew blood there."
"Miss Bingham, I am in no mood for petty warfare35 of our sort. Our men have done enough, and they are riding out again. We women should keep still tongues, I think, and pray for better guidance."
"How does one pray? You're country-bred and I am not." The voice was gentle, but the sideways glance had venom36 in it. "It comes so easily to you, no doubt—scent of hay, and church bells ringing you across the fields, and perhaps he will meet you at the stile, to share the self-same book—is that what prayer means?"
"No," said the Governor, interposing bluntly. "Ask Lady Derby what prayer means—she who has made Lathom House a beacon37 for all time. Ask Ingilby's wife, who held Ripley for the King's wounded—ask Rupert——"
"The Prince—is he, too, among the listeners to church bells?" asked Miss Bingham airily.
"To be precise, he is. I talked yesterday with one who was at York when Rupert came to raise the siege. The Prince was spent with forced marches, dead-weary, soul and body. He had earned his praise, you would have thought; but, when they cheered him like folk gone mad, he just waited till the uproar38 ceased, and bared his head. 'The faith that is in me did it, friends, not I,' he said, and the next moment he laughed, asking for a stoup of wine."
"He cared for his body, too, 'twould seem," murmured Miss Bingham.
"A soldier does, unless by birth and habit he's an incorrigible39 fool. I've even less acquaintance than you with prayer; but I've seen the fruits of it too often, child, to sneer40 at it."
"To be named child—believe me, sir, it's incense41 to me. Miss Grant here was persuading me that I was old enough to be her mother. I was prepared to kneel at the next wayside pool and search there for grey hairs."
"Search in twenty years or so—time enough for that. Meanwhile, we have to follow these hot-headed Metcalfs, and discipline begins, Miss Bingham."
"Oh, discipline—it is as tedious as prayer."
The Governor cut short her
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