“I can trust you,” said Sir Jasper, with sudden decision. “Guard her—as God sees us, she is—is very dear to me.”
Then, after a restless silence, Sir Jasper’s doubts, bred of bodily weakness, ran into a new channel.
“There’s yourself to think of in all this—your own wife, and your house. The Hanover men will not be gentle if we lose the battle up in Scotland.”
“Royd,” said the red-faced squire, not fearing now to meet his glance, “we’ve come badly out of this, we fools who stayed at home. There’s been no flavour in our wine; we’ve been poor fox-hunters, not caring whether we were in at the death or no—you’ll not grudge us our one chance to play the man?”
Sir Jasper understood at last that recusants can have their evil moments, can find worse cheer than he had met at Derby.
“I warn you, Ned, there’s small chance of our winning now. For old friendship’s sake, I’ll not let you go blindly into this.”
“What’s the ballad Nance Demaine sings so nattily? Life’s losing and land’s losing, and what were they to gi’e? Oh, it’s all true, Royd. We have our chance at last—and, gad! we mean to take it.”
“It bites deep, Ned,” said the other, with grave concern. “It bites deep, this wife losing and land losing.”
“Not as deep as shame,” snapped the red-faced squire. “I’m a free man of my hands again. And now, by the look of you, you’d best get to bed. Honest man to honest man, Royd, you’re dead-beat?”
“Yes—if the house is safe,” said Sir Jasper, with unalterable simplicity.