"And Lady Kathleen would tell you that she was quite capable of conducting her own business without interference, Mr. Coombe!"
"Which would serve me right for a meddling, interfering old fool!" said Mr. Coombe.
He knocked out his pipe and then presently the warm sunshine, the drowsy hum of the hees hovering about the old straw skeps on their bench in the little orchard across the road, the good English ale, all had their effect. Mr. Coombe's heavy head nodded. He jerked himself awake, then nodded again, and so fell asleep. And Harold Scarsdale, an empty pipe between his teeth, sat with folded arms and stared before him, seeing nothing, but thinking deeply and his thoughts were: "After all—after all might there not even now be some hope for him? Must the years be all lonely?"
She, God's blessings on her, would not come to him in shame—her shame—and his, yet might she not come if the burden of shame should fall on other shoulders?
So Mr. Coombe snored in the pleasant sunshine and Harold Scarsdale widely awake, dreamed of a future that might even yet be.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE CONQUEROR
A girl was leaning against the old rose red wall, she was sobbing pitifully.
"'Ee du be cruel, for—for ever pestering I!" she moaned. "Why doan't 'ee leave me in peace, Abram?"
The man stood stolidly watching her, her tears moved him not at all.