It was rumoured that, through the Lord Falkland, who was highly considered by many of the Parliamentary leaders, and who was known to be a Royalist far too generous and right minded to wish well to despotic government, expectations of a reconciliation between the King and his Commons were yet entertained. But Katharine, though she wished not to depress her more sanguine friend, could not but fear that these rumours of peace were begotten rather of the wishes of those who uttered them than of their judgment: that too many resolute men were on horseback and in arms; and that they would assuredly draw the sword and try the issues of battle. As thus they walked together, softened by the repose and beauty of the scene around, Jane ventured upon a theme which seldom or ever passed her lips. She spoke of love, and of its many crosses; but withal that better it was to love, though life were passed separated from the object of it, than not to feel so sweet an influence.
“It is true, Jane,” said Katharine mournfully, “it is most true; yet misplaced affections do greatly wear the spirit.”
“You do not mean misplaced, dear cousin, surely; but fixed hopelessly on one most worthy of our love. Such is your destiny, for Francis is a noble being. You never told me of the first growth of your attachment: how did it first spring? what moved you? did he woo you? Love, they say, does ever beget love; but yet, methinks, nothing of outward show or manliest beauty, no mere words of admiration, would have availed to fix any man firmly in a heart like yours.”
“Albeit the subject pains me, I will tell thee, Jane. Yes, he is worthy of a woman’s love. From his first youth he has been, as thou knowest well, a soldier. It was his father’s pride to see him, when but a stripling, not so tall as the boy Arthur, intrusted with a standard in the day of battle. In his first field, a bullet struck him down upon his knees; still, with uplifted arms, he waved his ensign, and strove to keep his place in the close ranks, till faint with pain he fell: but, even then, he grasped the colour staff so firmly, that a stout lieutenant, who, for its safety, took it from him, was forced to bruise his boyish hands ere they would let go their sacred charge. On the morrow, as he lay upon his bloody straw in the field hospital, the great Gustavus gave him the Iron Cross of Honour, and with it a commission in his guard of horse,—rewards for this first proof of constancy.
“This, at our table, his father did relate with such a pride as doth become a parent. Francis the while coloured a little, and looked down for modesty, but said nothing. I felt hot tears upon my cheek; and when they drank his health, and I did pledge him, he saw those tears. Such was the birth of our attachment; and kind words, and gentle actions, and books, and music, and many things, did feed it, till it grew to love; and then came trouble. Thou knowest well the bitter feud that blazed forth suddenly between our fathers. The quarrel was of public matters; for my father never knew nor even guessed our love. ’Tis long, long past that blissful season: let’s talk of it no more.”
“Thank you, dear Katharine,” said Jane, with swimming eyes and faltering tongue; “I feel for you. I love you so, it was but right to tell me this. You wish for silence; be it so: for the world I would not pain you.” Their conversation dropped, and they gave themselves to the grave thoughts it had called up.
It had been late in the afternoon before they came out: evening drew on; and the sun was setting in a fine autumnal sky, when they were surprised by the sound of approaching voices: as they became more distinct, Jane observed that they must proceed from some persons on the river or on the opposite bank. They went to a tree near the water, and there, concealed by the overhanging branches, they saw a small boat dropping down the stream, and gliding to the very bank on which they stood. It came close, but neither of the persons in it stepped ashore: they continued talking in a foreign language, and comparing a distant outline of ground with papers which they held in their hands. Their backs were towards Katharine and Jane; but these almost immediately recognised one as the Flemish painter, who lodged in the same house with them, the other was a tall stately man in a helmet and a buff war coat, with an orange scarf depending from his right shoulder. The heart of Katharine throbbed violently. Under the disguise of a foreign tongue, she was not certain about the voice; but she thought it was that of Francis. He lifted his helmet from his head, and turned to catch the evening breeze. It was her cousin. Her cheek became deadly pale: she trembled excessively, and caught at the trunk of the tree for support. A sudden exclamation from Jane Lambert gave alarm. Francis sprang instantly to the shore, eager to quiet any fears which he might innocently have caused. Nor was the surprise greater to them than to himself, when he saw Katharine Heywood and Jane Lambert before him.