"Thou wilt go with me, Janet?"
"As far as the library door. I will listen and peep through the keyhole when no one is passing."
A lackey came to conduct Mistress Katherine below. He looked surprised
at Janet as she followed them, neither was his curiosity appeased when
Mistress Penwick passed through the library door, and the severe-faced
Janet sat down upon a ponderous chair in the corridor just outside.
'Twas a great room with enormous fireplaces, and in front of one of them stood Lord Cedric. There was a smile on his face as he noted his ward's surprise. She looked upon him with interest and finally spoke,—
"Lord Cedric sent for me; he is not here," and she retreated as if to leave the room.
"Nay, do not leave until thou hast become acquainted with Cedric of Crandlemar." He held out his hand to her longingly, pleadingly, and stood thus before her; his figure of an Adonis silhouetted by the flames that reached above his head in the great chimney behind him. His face and form was a match for her own. A hunting-coat wrapped his broad shoulders; his beauteous limbs were encased in high-field boots, showing well his fine masculine mould.
"How many lords of Crandlemar are there?" she asked, almost contemptuously.
"One, only," and he still held out his hand with a gesture of entreaty. "I was the ill-humoured, boisterous man in Scotch attire last night. I beg thee to forgive and forget it. Come—come—thou art my ward."
"But my Lord Cedric is an old man, as old as my father, and is
Scotch."
"Thou art speaking of my father; he has been dead five years. Thy father did not know of his death when he sent thee to England. And my mother"—his voice trembled—"died when I was born. I was reared without a woman's love. Angel was too old to teach me tenderness. She has tried to guide me; but Kate—thy father calls thee so—I have had no one to love me like thee. I have lived a wild, boisterous life in Scotland most of the time, and after father died I went to France. I have lived wickedly, Kate; I have given myself over to oaths, and—and—and—drink;—'twas so last night when I saw for the first time the woman I loved; who was as fair in face, form and soul, as all I had ever pictured or dreamed. Wilt thou forget my course tongue and try—try—to—to—to love me, Kate. Thou wilt say 'tis soon to speak so to thee; but why keep back that 'tis best for me to say and thou to know?" She could not mistake the ring of truth in his voice that was now so pleading.