"I have not yet accused thee of bringing discredit upon our house, and devoutly hope my fears are but absurd, born of that doubt which seemeth to be resident in the minds of men one for the other. By my troth, we can seldom point with certainty in these days to one of our fellow creatures, and say truly, I know him to be good and free from treason. It would, I swear," he continued, with a sigh, "little surprise me, to hear the Archbishop of Canterbury had been seen to hold his crosier for a pretty wench to leap across, that he might the better gaze upon her ankles. Thou art a man grown; therefore, I can but counsel. But this I know: love for one below thy station, though she have all purity and moral excellence, seldom ends in marriage; if by chance it doth bring thee to the altar, repentance with its dismal train follows far too often, even ere the echo of the chimes hath died away."
"Thy counsel did, and ever shall stand high in my regard," replied Effingston. "But thy fears are groundless. I do admit that she to whom thou dost refer is not of highest birth; still, her ancestors helped to keep the crown upon a king's head, and methinks, deserve more credit for acting thus without reward than though they bore the title of a Duke or Prince. As thou hast asked, and with perfect justice, I will tell the story from its beginning. Thou might misjudge if thy mind held its present suspicion, and it would lead to setting aside of confidences which, it hath been my happiness to feel, did ever exist between us."
"Thou sayest well," replied the other, with affection. "I have always looked upon thee as my sword arm, to carry out by thy young strength the deeds which time hath left me ill conditioned to perform."
"Thou remembrest," began Effingston, "the night three months since, I rode to Chartsey Manor, with intent to sound Lord Cecil regarding his attitude on issues then before Parliament. It was midnight ere I left, and well on toward the stroke of two when I arrived in the outskirts of London. Proceeding slowly on my way, drinking in deeply the beauties of the night, suddenly there sounded upon my startled ear a woman's scream, which quickly ceased, as if she who uttered it had been rudely seized about the throat. I reined up my horse and listened. Distinctly could I hear, not two hundred paces from me, the sound of scuffling feet and an outburst of drunken laughter, ending in a round of fiendish cursing. 'Hold,' cried I, 'wait until I can loose my sword and lend thee aid.' Saying which, I hastily dismounted, throwing the bridle of my horse over a bush hard by, and hurried in the direction of the tumult. On turning a corner, there came upon my sight a scene which made my blood boil and lent new speed to my legs. Two ruffians had set upon a woman, and while one held back her chin and shoulders, the other was endeavoring to imprint a kiss upon the upturned face, the rogue being hindered in his purpose by the girl, who, holding in her hand a small dagger, lunged right boldly with it. 'Avaunt ye, knaves,' I cried, running, sword in hand. Before, however, I could reach the struggling group she had struck the man in front of her, causing him for a moment to desist, when, with a sudden accession of strength, breaking away from the one who held her, she set her back against the wall, confronting the two assailants with the look and spirit of a tigress. The men, now for the first time perceiving me, having been too deep in liquor and their employment to hear my shout, took to their heels, but not until I had spoiled the sword arm of one and left my mark upon the other. Turning toward the girl who stood by the wall, I discovered the momentary spirit had left her, for again she was the weak woman and would have fallen fainting to the ground, had I not given her support. She soon revived, and having received her thanks, prettily given, I inquired how it fell out she had been so rudely set upon; in reply to which she told me of her grandam being taken ill, and in need of a leech, and how she had gone forth to fetch him, and was attacked, when returning from her errand. On begging that she would permit me to see her safely home, my offer was accepted with thanks. When arrived at our destination she asked if I would not on the next day return, that she might more fully express her gratitude. Thou knowest, my father, how love grows in the heart. At first my feeling was one of curiosity; but it soon changed to admiration for the fair girl, and, at last it ripened into love, as I learned to know the soul which rested in her beautiful form. This is my simple story, and I have naught more to tell."
"My son," replied the other, who had listened with eager attention to the narrative, "there's naught, so far, that I condemn, and I applaud thee for thy chivalry, but I had higher hopes for thee than a marriage with a commoner. Thou hast, however, omitted to tell me her name," he added, in a voice betokening anxiety.
"Her name is Elinor Fawkes, the daughter of an officer, English by birth, now serving in the army of Spain."
"Elinor Fawkes," repeated the father, with a start and looking toward Effingston. "'Tis as I feared. Is this, then, the creature on whom thou wouldst bestow thy name? Have thine ears been out of sorts, never to have heard the rumor which connects her in none too savory a manner with the adventurer Sir Thomas Winter? It is common talk, for I will speak plainly to thee, that she is his mistress."
"In thy throat thou liest," the other cried, leaping to his feet, white to the lips with sudden passion; "recall those words, or by St. Paul, I'll strike thee to my feet, forgetting the loins which begat me! She hath fully told me of, and set aside, the lie which coupleth her with Sir Thomas Winter."
"Aye, she hath explained to thee readily enough, I trow," exclaimed the other, roused to anger. "Lives there the woman who could not make excuses if but a moment were granted her? I shall not chide thee for thy hasty words; time will bring them to thy memory with remorse. But listen unto reason, and——"
"I'll hear no more," Effingston cried, in a voice full of passion.