And he rose and began to walk aimlessly up and down the room, in that restless manner which was well suited to emphasise his words.
“But—your Lordship’s pardon granted—would you not find it far better to seek for distraction and pleasance in the Court, than to shut yourself up in a gloomy cell with those monks?”
Earl Edmund stopped in his walk and looked at Reginald, whose speech touched his quick sense of humour.
“I would advise you to give thanks in your prayers to-night, De Echingham.”
“For what, my Lord?”
“That you have as yet no conception of a sorrow which is past distraction by pleasance. ‘Vinegar upon nitre!’ You never tasted it, I should think.”
“I thank your Lordship, I never did,” said Reginald, who took the allusion quite literally.
“Well, I have done, and I did not like it,” rejoined his master. “I prefer the monks’ soupe maigre, if you please. Be so good as to make ready, De Echingham.”
Reginald obeyed, but grumbling bitterly within his disappointed soul. Could there be any misery on earth worse than a cold stone bench, a bowl of sorrel soup, and a chapter of Saint Augustine to flavour it? And when they had only just touched the very edge of the London season! Why, he would not get a single ball that spring. Poor Reginald!
They stayed but one night at Berkhamsted, though, to the Earl, Berkhamsted was home. It was the scene of his birth, and of that blessed unapprehensive childhood, when brothers and sisters had played with him on the Castle green, and light, happy laughter had rung through the noble halls; when the hand of his fair Provençal mother had fallen softly in caresses on his head, and his generous, if extravagant, father had been only too ready to shower gold ducats in anticipation of his slightest wish. All was gone now but the cold gold—hard, silent, unfeeling; a miserable comforter indeed. There was one brother left, but he was far away—too far to recall in this desolate hour. Like a sufferer of later date, he must go alone with his God to bear his passion. (Note 1.)