"Unhappy, oh, my lady, I be very happy here, indeed—indeed I be—very happy I be, my lady."
"You look white and troubled, child," Kathleen said. "Is—is that man, is your grandmother—troubling you?"
"No, my Lady, I've not seen Grandmother since I came here."
"And Lestwick?"
"Abram du hang about waiting for I, my Lady, Polly Ransom have told me that Abram du continually be hanging about the green door, my Lady, but I doan't go out and so I du never see he."
"I will speak to Mr. Homewood about it and ask him to interview this Lestwick and tell him to keep away from here, for I will not have you worried and troubled, Betty. Now run down, child, and tell Sir Harold."
Scarsdale paced up and down in the warm sunlight, waiting, as years ago he had waited in another garden for the coming of his beloved.
And presently she would come to him, he did not doubt that. He turned now at the sound of a light step, but it was not she, he knew that—who, who loves, does not know the step of the beloved one? Is it not different from all other footfalls in the world, as different as 'her' voice is different from all other voices. A man usually knows the step of the woman he loves, but a woman always knows the step of her man. Scarsdale, turning slowly, knew full well that it was not Kathleen. A stern, silent man was he, misjudged by many who thought him cold and even heartless. Men found but little pleasure in his society, women none, for he had neither heart nor admiration to give them. He had looked at beautiful women and had failed to see their beauty, because only one face was beautiful in his sight. But this little maid tripping to him so demurely in the sunlight was pretty enough to win an unaccustomed smile to his lips.
What a pretty child she was, a fit handmaiden for Her!
"You want me?" he asked, and his voice was a little more gentle than usual.