“Good-bye, Hector!”
“Fare ye weel, John! An’ ... ye’ve nae worrd for her ... no message? Juist ane worrd, John?”
“Not one, Hector!”
“Aweel, guid-bye, lad! An’ when ye’re weary an’ waeful an’ heartsick, come back tae Alfriston, to the Downs, tae auld Hector as lo’es ye vera weel—guid-bye!” Then Sir Hector nodded, the post-boy cracked his whip and the chaise rolled away.
CHAPTER XLVII
TELLETH HOW MY LADY HERMINIA BARRASDAILE WENT A-WOOING
It was a golden morning; beyond dew-spangled hedgerows stretched green meadows where brooks sparkled and the river gleamed, while afar, to right and left, rose the majestic shapes of Windover and Firle Beacon.
Never had the country looked so fair, never had it filled him with such yearning; never had the birds carolled so joyously. And very soon, instead of this widespread smiling countryside he loved so much, the reverent hush and stillness of these everlasting hills, the rugged, simple folk he had learned to honour and respect, in place of all this would be the narrow, roaring streets of London, the glitter of Mayfair, the whirl of Paris.... Emptiness and Desolation! Sir John sighed again and closed his eyes wearily.
Presently from an inner pocket he took a wallet, whence he extracted a small, folded paper and, opening this, beheld a thick curl of glossy black hair; for a long moment he gazed down at this; then, taking it from the paper, made to toss it from the chaise window. But, as he did so, the pretty thing twined itself softly about his finger and clung there, whereupon he sighed, raised it suddenly to his lips, kissed it passionately and cast it forth, shaking it violently from his hand much as if it had stung him.
And now from the wallet he drew a folded parchment, and frowned at the words that stared at him therefrom in fair black and white: