Lady Ingilby's face grew harder as she listened to the message, but still her unconquerable humour stayed with her. "So they know me as 'that termagant.' Good! I'm making this house a training-school for Cavaliers. I stay at home while my husband rides for the King; but I, too, am riding. Joan, the suspense would kill me if I had no work to do. Sometimes he sends word that he is hale and busy down in Oxfordshire, and always he calls me sweetheart once or twice in these ill-written, hasty letters. At my age, child, to be sweetheart to any man!"
Something of the spoiled days slipped away from Joan as she breathed this ampler air. The aunt who had been a little cold, austere, in bygone years was showing her true self.
"What of your mad neighbour?" asked Lady Ingilby, repenting of her softer mood. "You did not leave him on the bench, surely, tied hand and foot? You cut the ropes?"
"The villagers would not allow it—and, indeed, why should I regret? He was rough with me—cold and uncivil."
"There, child! Never wave the red flag in your cheeks. Folk see it, like a beacon fire. You're in love with the madman. No denial, by your leave. I'm old and you are young, and I know my world."
"He is uncouth and rude. I hate him, aunt."
"That proves it to the hilt. I'll send out a rescue-party. Men who have no care for their own lives are precious these days."
"You have no need," said Miss Grant. "I forgave him for his roughness."
"Tut, child! Forgiveness won't untie his hands."
"But I sent word, too, to his kinsmen, who are near."