And, in faith, when I had got so far as that, the maiden sank back upon a grassy heap and hid her face behind her hands, and gave way to a wild, tumultuous fit of laughter, a golden cascade of merriment that fell thick and sparkling from the sunny places of her youthful joyance, as you see the heavy rain-drops glint through a bright April sky; a wild, irresistible torrent of frolic glee that wandered round the faroff alleys, and raised a hundred answering echoes of pleasure in that enchanted garden.
Presently the maid recovered, and, putting down her hands, asked—“And your meals—how came you by them?”
“They were laid for me twice each day in the great hall by unseen hands, most punctual and mysterious. ’Twas simple fare, but sufficient to a soldier, and each time I cleared the table and went afield, when I came back it was reset; yet no one could I see—no sound there was to break the stillness——”
Again that lady burst into one of her merry trills, and, when it was over, signed me to sit beside her. I was not loth. She was fair and young and tender—as pretty an Amaryllis as ever a country Corydon did pipe to. So down I sat.
“Now,” said she, “imprimis, Sir, I do confess we owe you recompense for such scant courtesy; but I gather how it happened. This is, as I have said, my father’s house, and mine; and time was, once, it has been told me, when he had near as many servants as I have flowers here, with friends unending; and all those blank windows, yonder, were full of lights by night and faces in the day. Then this garden was trim—not only here but everywhere—and great carriages ground upon the gravel drive, and the courtyard was full of caparisoned palfreys. That was all just so long ago, Sir, that I remember nothing of it.”
“I can picture it, damsel,” I said, as she sighed and hesitated; “and how came this difference?”
“I do not know for certain—I have often wondered why, myself—but my father presently had spent all his money, and perhaps that somehow explained it,” sighed my fair philosopher. “Then, too, he took studious, and let his estate shift for itself, while he pored over great tomes and learned things, and hid himself away from light and pleasure. That might have scared off those gay acquaintances—might it not, Sir?” queried the lady so unlearned in worldly ways.
“It were a good recipe, indeed,” was my answer: “none better! To grow poor and wise is high offense with such a gilded throng as you have mentioned. So then the house emptied, and the gates no longer stood wide open; the garden was forsaken, and grass grew on thy steps; owls built in thy corridors—a dismal picture, and sad for thee, but this does not explain the strange entertainment I have had. Where is your father lodged? And you—how is it we have not met before?”
“Oh,” said the damsel, brightening up again, “that is easily explained. When his friends left him, my father dismissed all his servants but one—a Spanish steward—and good old Mistress Margery, my nurse (and, saving my father, my only friend), then lodged himself back yonder in the far rear of our great house, and there I have grown up.”
“Like a fair flower in a neglected spot,” I hazarded.