"No," answered Sir John Grey; "and yet I must say yes, too; for that which is sad for you, must be sad for me, Mary."
"He is dead! he is killed!" cried Mary Grey, her sunny cheek growing deadly pale; but her father hastened to relieve her on that score.
"No, Mary," he said, gravely, "he is not dead; but he is unworthy."
The blood rushed up again into her face, as if some one had accused her of a crime; but the next moment she laughed, gaily answering, "No, my father, no! Some one has deceived you. That is impossible. Richard of Woodville cannot be unworthy."
"Alas! my sweet child, 'tis you deceive yourself," replied the knight; "the confidence of love speaks out before you know the facts."
"I know one fact, my father," answered Mary, "which none can contradict; and which is my answer to all that can be said. For many a long year I have known him. In youth and manhood I have watched him well: and there is not a truer heart on earth. If any one say that his courage has failed in the hour of peril, it is false, my father. If any one say that he has betrayed his friend, it is false. If any one say, that he has deceived, even by word, man or woman, high or low, it is false. If any one say, that he has forgotten his duty, broke his plighted word, wronged his king, his country, you, or me, believe it not, for it is false, my father."
"These are the words of love, my Mary," replied Sir John Grey; "but though I would fain shield that dear bosom through life from every shaft of sorrow, pain, and disappointment, yet, my sweet child, I would rather see you suffer, bitterly though it might be, than regard what I have to tell you of this youth with that light indifference which some might show. He left his native land, Mary, plighted and pledged to you; telling you he went to seek honour for your sake; and yet he brought hither with him a fair leman, to sooth his idle hours with songs and dalliance. Was this worthy, Mary? Nay, doubt it not; for I have it from three several sources; and his own conduct to myself confirms the tale."
He thought to see tears, or at least thoughtful looks; but Mary once more laughed gaily; and holding her father's arm with her fair hand, gazed merrily in his face. "Alas!" she said, "how men are fond of mischief! and what chance can a poor defenceless woman have to escape scandal, when you powerful lords of earth so slander one another? Forgive me, my dear father; but I needs must laugh, to think that any one here, in a foreign land, should take the pains, from pure malignity to my poor knight, to try thus sillily to trouble the peace of Mary Grey, by poisoning her parent's mind against her lover. Poor Ella Brune! little did she think, or little did I think when I bade her go, what evil to her kind and generous benefactor might be done, by her coming with him. I have an antidote to the poison, my dear father; and thanks to that generous candour which made you condescend to tell your child all the plain truth, I can apply it. I know this girl, my father--I know the whole history. I am even art and part in the offence; or rather it is mine, not his. She is my paramour, not Richard's;" and Mary blushed brightly, while even in her laughing eyes a dewy drop of emotion rose up and sparkled, as she defended him she loved.
"Your words are strange, dear one," said the knight; "but let me hear more. Tell me the whole, my child."
"That I will do," replied Mary. "I will tell you the whole tale after supper, and hers is a very sad one. But first, to set your mind fully at ease, let me say, that the only evil thing Richard has done in all this affair, was showing some want of courtesy to the poor girl herself; for when, after having received from him kind and generous protection in her hour of sorrow and of danger, she thought to journey to join her friends in Burgundy, under the safeguard of his little band--Richard, fearing too much what men might say, or perchance, fancying that Mary might be jealous, unkindly refused to take her; and it was I who bade her go, and promised her that, with a free heart, I would let all idle fancies pass me by as evening winds."