“Why another time?” he said. “Ah, I see,” he cried, with jealous fury, for, glancing beyond her, he suddenly became aware of the figure of Sir Mark approaching them; and, turning a curious, inquiring look upon the girl, he glanced back at Sir Mark. “There is the reason, then. And it is for this gay court-bird that rough Gilbert Carr is thrown aside.”
Had it been lighter he would not, in his then excited mood, have read aright the look of reproach in the poor girl’s face as she hurried onward to hide the burning tears that flooded her eyes, and reached home to find Father Brisdone waiting by the garden-gate.
“Ah, my child,” he said, saluting her; “a goodly evening. How sweet the wild-flowers smell! Why, what is wrong? You seem in trouble.”
“Yes, yes, father,” she whispered, excitedly. “A sudden fear has assailed me. Go down towards the meadow, follow them into the wood, if they have gone there; my heart tells of mischief.”
“They? Who, child?” said the father, quickly.
“Sir Mark—Gilbert Carr. I fear they will quarrel.”
“Have they cause?” said the father, inquiringly. “Here is Master Peasegood. He was to meet me. Well met, Brother Joseph,” he said, as the stout clerk waddled up. “Leave it to us, dear child, and we will bring these mad boy’s to their senses.”
“Mad boys—senses!” cried Master Peasegood, mopping his face. “What is wrong? You don’t mean that this Sir Mark and the Captain—? Oh fie, Mace, my child, fie!”
“Master Peasegood, if you have any feeling for me,” cried Mace, in hot indignation, “go and interpose before there is mischief done.”
“Phew!” whistled the clerk. “Brother Brisdone, come along.”