“The Prince needs me,” he muttered stubbornly. “That should be praise enough for any man.”
He rode down the bridle-track to Windyhough; and the nearer he got to the chimneys that were smoking gustily in the shrewd east wind, the more he loved his homestead. It was as if a man, living in a green oasis, were asked to go out across the desert sands, because a barren, thirsty duty called him.
Again the patient yesterdays rallied to his aid. He shook himself free of doubts, as a dog does when he comes out of cold waters; and he took a pinch of snuff, and laughed. “After all, I was growing fat and sleepy,” he thought, stooping to pat the tired horse that carried him. “One can sleep and eat too much.”
He found Lady Royd in the hall, waiting for him, and a glance at her face chilled all desire to tell her the good Rising news.
“What is the trouble, wife?” he asked, with sudden foreboding. “Is Rupert ill?”
She stamped her foot, and her face, comely at usual times, was not good to see. “Oh, it is Rupert with you—and always Rupert—till I lose patience. He is—why, just the scholar. He does not hunt; he scarce dares to ride—we’ll have to make a priest of him.”
“There are worse callings,” broke in Sir Jasper, with the squared jaw that she knew by heart, but would not understand. “If my soul were clean enough for priesthood, I should no way be ashamed.”
“Yes, but the lands? Will you not understand that he is the heir—and there must be heirs to follow? We have but two, and you’re taking Maurice to this mad rising that can only end on Tower Hill.”
“That is as God wills, wife o’ mine.”
Again she stamped her foot. “You’re in league together, you and he.”