The Governor saluted with extreme precision. "This almost reconciles me to the loss of Knaresborough, sir. We have heard of you—give you good-day," he broke off, catching sight of Michael and Christopher. "We have met in happier circumstances, I think."
CHAPTER XXI.
SIR REGINALD'S WIDOW.
There is nothing so astounding, so muddled by cross-issues and unexpected happenings, as civil war. Not long ago Marston Moor had heard the groans of Cavaliers as they lay naked to the night-wind, and prayed for death in Wilstrop Wood. York had surrendered. The garrisons of Knaresborough and Ripley, met together on the dusty highroad here, were weak with famine and privation. Yet they stood chatting—the ladies of both garrisons passing laughter and light badinage with the men—as if they were gathered for a hunting-party or falconry. The intolerable pressure of the past months was ended for a while, if only by disaster; and from sheer relief they jested.
Joan Grant, in the middle of the chatter, edged her mare near to a sprightly horse-woman who had just dismissed Michael with a playful tap of her whip across his cheek.
"You are Miss Bingham? Ah, I guessed it."
"By what token?"
"By your beauty, shall we say? Gossip has so much to tell about it, and about the Vicarage garden, with Nidd River swirling past the ferry-steps."
They eyed each other with the wariness of duellists. "The good Vicar is fortunate in his garden," assented Miss Bingham, with the most charming courtesy.
"And in his water-nymphs, 'twould seem. I think you would be like some comely dream—on an April evening, say, with the young leafage of the trees for halo."