“Well, it were not possible to wish he had kept to the new,” pursueth she. “I do fear there were some brent in Smithfield, that had been alive at this day but for him. But ever since Queen Mary died hath he kept him so quiet, that in very deed I never now reckoned him amongst the living. Where is he now?”
“God wot,” saith Aunt Joyce, huskily.
My Lady was silent awhile: and then she saith—
“Well, may-be better so. But Joyce, doth Lettice know?”
“That Tregarvon were he? Not without Aubrey hath told her these last ten days: and her face saith not so.”
“No, it doth not,” my Lady makes answer. “But Sir Aubrey wist, then? His face is not wont to talk unless he will.”
“In no wise,” saith Aunt Joyce. “Ay, Dulcibel; I had to tell him.”
“Thou?” saith my Lady, pityingly.
“None knew him but me,” made she answer, and her voice grew very troubled. “Not even Aubrey, nor Lettice. Bess guessed at him after awhile, but not till she had seen him divers times. But for me one glimpse was enough.”
Aunt Joyce’s work was still now.