“Why are you here, Sir John, wasting yourself in the country?” she demanded mockingly. “Your true place is that same heartless, selfish world o’ modish idleness whence you came! What do you here among these kindly Sussex folk who, at the least, live to some purpose? Why are you here, you who live for no purpose but yourself?”
“Mayhap,” he answered, “’tis because you once minded me o’ the scabious flowers, child. See where they bloom all around us, sweet things! Do not tread too hastily, Herminia, lest you crush and end their blooming. Haste not so, for here is a stile for you to climb, and yonder, bosomed i’ the green, is Alfriston spire.”
“Aye, I thank heaven!” cried she.
“And wherefore thy so fervent gratitude, child?”
“To be rid of thy hated presence!”
“Ah, Rose,” he sighed. “Alas, Herminia, how heavy thy foot is! See this poor flower you trample—’tis my heart!” And speaking, he stooped, put by her foot very gently, and plucked one of the scabious flowers she had trodden; fingering it tenderly, he placed it in her hand. “Take it, child!” he sighed; “cherish it for its own sweet sake. And for me and my so hated presence, I will deliver you, here and now.... But first, thy poor, pretty wrists? Show ’em to me!”
“No!” she answered; “never to you, Sir John!”
“Indeed, child, ’tis thy Derwent pleadeth, thy John o’ Gentleness.... Suffer me to see!” And, taking her hands, he lifted them whether she would or no.
“I see no wounds,” quoth he, “nor mark or bruise; and yet who am I to judge the pretty things? And if they endured hurt, let this witness my sorrow.” So saying, he stooped and kissed them tenderly. “Thus, sweet Rose, thy Derwent leaveth thee. Now, had I been the ‘Wicked Dering’ and thou the proud Lady Barrasdaile, it had been ... thy hands, thine arms, thy lips ... thy very self! And now, farewell awhile, my Rose o’ love.”
Saying which, Sir John bared his head, gave her his hand across the stile, and seating himself thereon watched her wistfully as she hurried away.