“Is Master Pawson right, mother? Royal troops—Parliamentary troops? Why, they’re all the same.”
“No, Roy; there is a division—a great division, I fear, and discontented people are taking the side against the king.”
“Then I’m sorry for them,” said the boy, flushing. “They’ll get a most terrible beating, these discontented folks.”
“Let us hope so, my boy, so that there may be an end to this terrible anxiety. To those who have friends whom they love in the army, a foreign war is dreadful enough; but when I think of the possibility of a war here at home, with Englishmen striving against Englishmen, I shudder, and my heart seems to sink.”
“Look here,” cried the boy, as he rose and stood with his hand resting upon his mother’s shoulder, “you’ve been fidgeting and fancying all sorts of things, because you haven’t heard from father.”
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Royland, faintly.
“Then you mustn’t, mother. ’Tis as I say; he is too busy to write, or else he hasn’t found it easy to send you a letter. I’ll take the pony and ride over to Sidecombe and see when the Exeter wagon comes in. There are sure to be letters for you, and even if there are not, it will make you more easy for me to have been to see, and I can bring you back what news there is. I’ll go at once.”
Lady Royland took hold of her son’s hand and held it fast.
“No,” she said, making an effort to be firm. “We will wait another day. I have been fidgeting, dear, as you say, and it has made me nervous and low-spirited; but I’m better now for talking to you, my boy, and letting you share my trouble. I dare say I have been exaggerating.”
“But I should like to ride over, mother.”