"I am almost—almost happy. You did not find him? Come; they'll be needing us at Ripley."
CHAPTER XX.
THE HOMELESS DAYS.
Marston Moor was fought and ended. A mortal blow had been struck at the King's cause in the North; and yet the Metcalfs, rallying round Lady Ingilby at Ripley, would not admit as much. The King must come to his own, they held, and Marston was just an unlucky skirmish that mattered little either way.
York capitulated, and Squire Metcalf, when the news was brought at supper-time, shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a pity," he said. "We must get on without the good town of York—that is all."
Lady Ingilby glanced across at him. For the first time since Marston Moor she smiled. "And if all is lost, will you still believe that the world goes very well?"
A great sob broke from the Squire, against his will or knowledge. "Lady Ingilby, there are fewer Metcalfs than there were," he explained shame-facedly. "I went through Marston Fight, moreover. It is not my faith that weakens—it is just that I am human, and my courage fails."
None spoke for a while. The mistress of Ripley, on her knees in the chapelry, or busying herself about her men's needs, had learned what the Squire had learned. Those who had gone through the stress and anguish of the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closed walls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. It was as if some Presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife of sword and pike.
"If there were two Metcalfs left of us all," said the Squire, his big voice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all was well with King Charles. And, if one fell, t'other would be glad to be the last to die for His Majesty."