“Fail thee!” he made answer. “My sweetest of maids, impossible!”
“I feel afeared,” she saith again. “I would they had wist at home. I cannot be sure ’tis right.”
“Nay, sweet heart, call not up these old ghosts I have laid so oft already,” saith he. “Sir Aubrey’s Puritan notions should never suffer him to give thee leave afore: but when done, he shall right soon o’erlook all, and all shall go merry as a marriage bell. Seest thou, we do him in truth a great kindness, sith he should be feared to give consent, and yet would fain so do if his conscience should allow.”
“Would he?” asks Milly, in something a troubled tone.
“Would he!” Sir Edwin makes answer. “Would he have his daughter a right great lady at the Court? Why, of course he would. Every man would that were not a born fool. My honey-sweet Milisent, let not such vain scruples terrify thee. They are but shadows, I do ensure thee.”
“I think thus when I am with thee,” saith she, smiling up in his face: “but when not—”
“Sweet heart,” saith he, bending his goodly head, “not is well-nigh over, and then thy cruel Puritan scruples shall never trouble thee more.”
“It is as we feared,” I whispered into the ear of Aunt Joyce, whose face was turned from me: but when she turned her head, I was terrified. I never in my life saw Aunt Joyce look as she did then. Out of her cheeks and lips every drop of blood seemed driven, and her eyes were blazing fire. When she whispered back, it was through her set teeth.
“‘As!’ Far worse. Worser than thou wist. Is this the man?”
“This is Sir Edwin!”