Still, decisions being more easily taken than put into execution, Anne had been a very proud and happy mother for some eight weeks before Meadowes found it possible to speak to her of the matter of their supposed marriage. And even then his hand was, so to speak, forced. He had ridden out from town in haste one summer morning, and now sat in the porch with Anne, wondering why after all he had come, for tell her he could not, though he had started with the determination to do so.
‘For certain, Dick, you be mighty silent,’ said Anne at last, looking up from her sewing.
‘I am annoyed over business,’ said Meadowes lamely, looking down at the ground.
‘And a fine packet of letters unopened in your pocket too,’ laughed Anne, pointing with her needle at the bundle as she spoke.
‘I rode off in such haste,’ began Meadowes absently, then he took the letters from his pocket and turned them over one by one.
‘From my lawyer—from Simon Prior—from——’ He stopped short and looked hard at the third letter, shook his head, and broke the seal to glance at its contents.
‘Lor’, Dick! what hath come to you?’ cried Anne, throwing aside her work a moment later, for she had caught sight of his face; it was grown suddenly grey and rigid. She stepped behind him, laying her hand on his shoulder, and glanced down at the sheet of paper he held.
‘Nothing, Anne—a mere joke,’ said Meadowes quickly, crumpling up the paper as if Anne could have read what was written on it.
‘Dick, that’s a word from Sebastian Shepley, so sure as I do stand here,’ said Anne, her voice shaking; ‘I do know the looks of his name upon the sheet, for ’twas all ever I could read for myself of his letters, an’ many’s the one I had.’
‘Shepley? what would Shepley write to me of?’ asked Meadowes hotly, rising and walking away down the garden-walk towards the gate. But Anne would not be put off. She followed him down the walk and laid her hand on his arm.