“No, Tom, I will not,” said Mace, wondering what his request would be.
“Then don’t you be guiled into listening unto that fine London spark, mistress, for he’s a bad ’un, fond o’ wenching, and not good enough for thee.”
Tom Croftly did not wait for an answer to his prayer, but hurried away in a shamefaced fashion, leaving Mace with her breast heaving and the colour burning in her cheeks. The tears rose to her eyes, and she seemed to awaken once more to the realities of the present, and, as if to complete the disillusioning of her heart, she heard the tramp of a horse, and as she rejoined her father she heard the stout parson say—
“Hey, Master Cobbe, here comes thy gay visitor. I think I’ll not stay supper. I’ll say good-night. Ah, Mace, my child, you there? Farewell, my darling. Good-night.”
He rolled off, meeting Sir Mark by the bridge, as the latter caught sight of Mace’s dress through the trees, and effectually blocking the knight’s way as he tried to be polite, till such time as Mace had reached her room to sit for hours thinking of Sir Mark’s return. Then she found herself wondering what Gil was doing, and whether she ought ever to give him a thought now as she recalled the scene which she had witnessed with Mistress Anne.
How Gil and Sir Mark measured Swords.
“A courtier,” said Sir Mark, smiling, “Well perhaps I am; but see how I have taken to this rustic, delicious life. I have felt like another man since I have been here.”
“Indeed, Sir Mark,” said Mace gravely, as they stood a couple of evenings later in the founder’s hayfield, where the stack now stood waiting for its crowning of straw.
“Yes, indeed,” he cried. “Look here; I have been with your men to-day and yesterday when they piled up this sweet-scented hay, and I am growing quite a farmer. I know that Master Cobbe was rather too hurried in getting it up, and that it reeks too much, and that if it were covered in now it would go bad.”