As he left the porch he saw Sherebiah coming round from the garden with his arm unblushingly about the waist of Katrinka, the prettiest maidservant of the house. The honest fellow led the girl up to his master.
"I've done it, sir," he said. "Her've said it. Feyther o' mine may think what a' will, but, an't please Them above to bring me through, by next winter there'll be a Mistress Minshull once more to comfort his old aged soul. Eh, Katrinka, lass?"
The girl looked shyly up and dropt a curtsy.
"'Pon my soul, Sherry, you're a lucky fellow," said Harry. "My old friend will be pleased, I promise you. And look 'ee, I'll give you five minutes to say good-bye to Katrinka while Mr. Fanshawe and I ride on."
"Thank 'ee, sir! I'll catch 'ee up, soon as her be done."
"Sherry has had better luck than you, Fanshawe," said Harry with a smile, as they rode off.
"Yes, confound him! But hang it, Harry, I'll not give up hope yet. She was very kind to me when she said good-bye, and, by George! if I only escape a Frenchman's bullet and can manage to come off with flying colours and a neat little sabre-cut—who knows? she may be Mistress Godfrey Fanshawe yet."
Harry was silent. He felt a little surprised, perhaps a little hurt, that Adèle should have shown more warmth to Fanshawe, a friend of later date. He did not know what he had expected; he could not, indeed, have put his thoughts into words; but the coldness of Mademoiselle's farewell, so strongly contrasting with Madame's affectionate manner, had left him vaguely dissatisfied and made him disinclined to talk. Fanshawe, however, was in high spirits, and chattered freely as they went side by side at a walking pace along the road to Breda. Sherebiah by and by overtook them, and kept a few yards behind. He too was in capital spirits, and, having no one to converse with, was humming as he rode:
"So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,
All along, down along, out along lee;
And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan
Whiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.
"So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,
All along, down along, out along lee,
And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——"
"Confound you, Sherry!" cried Fanshawe, who had been so busy talking that not till this moment had he recognized the song. "Hanged if you are not always singing that wretched 'Widdicombe Fair'!"