“Ill is that angel which erst fell from heaven,
But not more ill than he, nor in worse case,
Who hides a traitorous mind with smiling face,
And with a dove’s white feather masks a raven,
Each sin some colour hath it to adorn.
Hypocrisy, Almighty God doth scorn.”
Wm. Drummond, 1616.
Dinner proved a trying meal that evening, although Sir Matthew and Mr. Marriott exerted themselves to talk, and were both of them very kind to their small companion. Afterwards they adjourned once more to the study where for the sake of the old lawyer a fire had been lighted.
“The nights are still cold,” he said drawing a chair towards the hearth, and warming his thin white hands; “May is but a treacherous month in spite of the good things the poets say of it. I understand that your father’s illness was caused by a chill,” he added, glancing kindly at Ralph.
“He caught cold one night when they sent for him down in the village,” said Ralph, tears starting to his eyes. “He was called up at two o’clock to see a man who was dying: there was an east wind, he said it seemed to go right through him. But then you know he had been very much troubled because of his losses; for the last ten days he had scarcely eaten anything, and had slept badly.”