“Woman, don’t wail—’tis useless! I regard this as a sacred duty, girl!”
“But ... O lud, my lady ... think o’ your ladyship’s good name ... the scandal——”
“One must be prepared to suffer in the high cause of duty, Betty child ... and, besides, my name will be Rose Ashton!”
“But, O my lady, if you run away—what o’ me?”
“You will proceed towards Paris in the coach as I ha’ told you, child! You will be quite safe with Giles and the footmen. And this minds me, the coach should be ready, and the sooner you start the better. Go down and bid Giles prepare for the road immediately. Stay, you cannot in all that finery! We’ll send Rose instead!” And away sped my lady accordingly, quite deaf to Betty’s reproachful wailings.
Thus Sir John, toying gloomily with knife and fork, was presently aware of stir and bustle within the house and of stamping hoofs and rumbling wheels without: wherefore he arose and crossed to the window in time to see Rose’s mistress, muffled to the eyes, clamber into the great four-horsed travelling-chariot, followed by Rose herself similarly attired; he watched the footmen close the door, put up the steps and swing themselves into the rumble, heard the hoarse command of the driver, a sudden clatter of straining hoofs, and away rolled the cumbrous vehicle towards Paris.
“And despite her chin!” sighed Sir John within himself. “Poor, silly, innocent child! Ah well, perchance her prayers and little cross may avail. Heaven send it so——”
Here he was roused by a huge hand on his shoulder and Sir Hector’s voice in his ear:
“Och-heigh! Are ye wearyin’ for Parus—sae sune, John?”
“Paris? Ha—’tis a sink of iniquity!” he retorted so fiercely that Sir Hector peered.