“John!” He drew back hastily; the figure moved towards him. “Sir John Dering?” Off came Sir John’s hat in a moment, and he bowed profoundly.
“Gad’s my life!” he exclaimed. “Do I indeed behold your ladyship? Bide you still i’ the country, madam? A fair good-night to you!” And he turned away, only to find her beside him.
“Why—why will you hazard your life thus wantonly?” she questioned. “Nay, sir, do not prevaricate; I know ’tis your custom to walk thus solitary of a night.”
“Your ladyship’s interest flatters me!” he murmured.
“Surely, sir,” said she, in the same calm and gentle tones, “life is not to be thus lightly jeopardised.”
“Tush, madam,” he laughed, “you grow hysterical again, ’twould seem, and ’tis a weakness of your charming sex that I have ever found extreme embarrassing, not to say wearisome. I suggest a pill ... a bolus and sleep, madam. Aye, sleep is the thing ... you shall find your megrims gone i’ the morning. So sleep you soundly, madam, and farewell!” Having said which, he bowed and departed, leaving her to watch him through slow-gathering tears. And suddenly, finding herself thus deserted, she bowed her stately head upon the old stile, wetting its ancient timbers with her tears and weeping so unfeignedly that she actually sniffed, though to be sure there was none to hear.
Meanwhile Sir John, striding his solitary way, looked up at the stars and smiled happily.
“She cares!” quoth he within himself. “By all the saints in heaven, she cares!” And, halting suddenly, he glanced back, minded to return. “Either she loves me, or here was marvellous good play-acting ... which, now?” Here he went on again, though very slowly, and coming to a gate, leaned there to debate the point.
My lady, reaching the cottage, paused awhile, also with gaze uplifted, but saw the starry firmament blurred by smarting tears.
“Alas,” sighed she, “he never loved me or he would have known! He is but the heartless Sir John Dering after all!”