“Metrusteth, Jack,” said Rachel cuttingly to her nephew, “next time thou wilt do thy best not to mistake a hero for a coward. I should not marvel, trow, if the child’s going on yon ice were some mischievous work of thine.”
“’Twas a gallant deed, in very sooth, Master Feversham,—without you can swim,” said Lady Enville faintly. She had gone into hysterics on hearing of the accident, and considered herself deserving of the deepest commiseration for her sufferings. “I am thankful Blanche wear but her camlet.”
“Canst thou swim, lad?” asked Sir Thomas of John.
“No,” he answered quietly.
“Were you not afeared, Master Feversham?” said Rachel.
“Ay, a little—lest I should be full spent ere help could come. But for that I trusted God. For aught else—nay: it was no time to think thereof.”
“Methinks, Jack Feversham,” said Sir Thomas affectionately, “none shall call thee a coward any more.”
Feversham smiled back in answer.
“Sir Thomas,” he said, “I fear God, and I love her. This was God’s work, and her great peril. How could I have held back?”
Sir Thomas glanced at his son; but Jack was twirling his moustache, and intently contemplating one of the stags’ heads which decorated the hall.