French lifted her up in his arms to kiss her, and she stopped crying and began to blush as he carried her over to the chimney corner where they sat, laughing and whispering, till Gilbot and Red, driven in by the rain, which had restarted with as much violence as ever, came for their tea.
“I thought you watched that damned Spaniard a deal too much, sweetheart,” said French, as he and Sue walked to the end of the lane together, although the rain came down in torrents.
“Oh! go along with you. Would I not rather have a man to love than a live knife?” said Sue, as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
CHAPTER XIV
MASTER FRANCIS MYDDLETON leaned back in his chair and gently stuffed a wad of coarse Virginia into the slightly blackened bowl of his stubby clay pipe, and lifted his gouty foot on to one of the bronzed firedogs which ornamented his spacious hearth, and then after pulling once or twice at the short stem, he took out a bundle of letters from one of his capacious pockets and began to read them. They were from his son who held a fairly responsible place at the Court of His Gracious Majesty King Charles II, and from time to time a low wheezing chuckle broke from the old man’s lips and he coughed and spat, the tears of laughter starting to his eyes as he read.
“The sly devil,” he muttered, laughing, “bribed her serving-wench with a kiss, did he?”
“Oh! dearie, dearie me—Good King Jamie was more particular. What a thing it is to be young and to have a king to serve,” and he laughed again, this time quite loudly.
A female voice called shrilly from the room above:
“What’s ailing you, Francis?”