“The Prince comes south, God bless him!” he said gravely. “We shall go out at dawn one of these near days, Agnes. We shall not wait for his coming—we shall ride out to meet him, and give him welcome into loyal Lancashire.”
She was not shrewish now. Within the narrow walls she had built about her life she loved him, as a garden-flower loves the sun, not asking more than ease and shelter. And her sun was telling her that he must be absent for awhile, leaving her in the cold, grey twilight that women know when their men ride out to battle.
“You shall not go,” she said, between her tears. “Dear, the need I have of you—the need——”
He stooped suddenly and kissed her on the cheek. “I should love you less, my dear, if I put slippers on at home and feared to take the open.”
And still she would not answer him, or look him in the eyes with the strength that husbands covet when they are bent on sacrifice and need a staff to help them on the road.
“You’re not the lover that you were—say, more years ago than I remember,” she said with a last, soft appeal.
He laughed, and touched her hand as a wooer might. “I love you twice as well, little wife. You’ve taught me how to die, if need be.”
She came through the door of the garden that had sheltered her. For the first time in her life she met the open winds; and Sir Jasper’s trust in her was not misplaced.
“Is that the love you’ve hidden all these years?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear. It’s the love you had always at command, if you had known it. Men are shy of talking of such matters.”