Misjudged.
“But whispering tongues may poison truth.”
Spite of sadness of heart and severe retrenchments, a certain number of court ceremonials were inevitable, particularly when the convocation of the States-General had filled Lisbon with the Portuguese nobility and great ecclesiastics.
Nella did not love pomp and state; she had been accustomed to a life of great freedom and simplicity, and, spite of some girlish pleasure in the handsome dresses provided for her by her father, she found it unspeakably wearisome to stand behind Queen Leonor for hours while she held receptions. One of these took place as soon as the offer of a ransom for Dom Fernando had been decided on, and the whole company were full of the subject, discussing the wrongs and rights of it at every moment when speech was possible. But besides the main question, there was a strong undercurrent of suspicion and indignation against the supposed sharers of Brother Martin’s treason. A great many people who had followed the apostate priest and had admired his preaching were loud in abuse of him, and repeated more than one saying which now appeared to them suspicious. Harry Hartsed, from a mixture of obstinacy and dislike to join in an outcry on an absent man who could not defend himself, declared that there was no proof against Brother Martin, and that he had always heard him express the most loyal sentiments. He was fresh from rather a sharp discussion on these points when the queen’s movements made it possible to approach Nella, who looked very handsome, her fair skin set off by her green and silver dress, and her golden head towering above the other ladies. She smiled when she saw Harry, as if his presence was a pleasing variety.
“Well sir,” she said, in English, “these court receptions may be mighty fine for you, who have your tongue free to talk, but I find it dull enough to stand speechless for hours.”
“Speak now, then, fair mistress,” said Harry, smiling; “and let me catch your words as they fall. Or would you prefer to listen while I tell you that I have but lived through the hours till I could reach your side?”
“No,” said Nella, pouting. “Why, have you grown into a courtier too?”
“And do you really wish yourself back again at Northberry?”
“Ay, that I do! Indeed, Harry,” said Nella, with a sudden change to earnestness that reminded him of her childish days, “sometimes I think that I do not love my good father nearly enough; for I cannot help wishing to go back again to Devon, though since Adela and Walter Coplestone have married and left the old manor it has been solitary enough.”
“I shall not be able to go back to Devon till I have seen war enough make my fortune,” said Harry; “nor do I wish to go—now,” he added, meaningly.