“Ay, truly,” said the landlady, looking inquisitively at Edith, “it must be urgent business that carries him to London e’enow; but there will be company on the road, Mistress Edith, for I chanced to hear young Sir Philip say as much to the other noble gentleman, as that he was on his way: and when he heard of that fearful plague, he would bring home his mother, he said. Bring home his mother, I trow! as if the Lady Dacre ever did one deed in this blessed world for any body’s will but her own.”
’Twould be a strange will, Mistress,” said Dame Dutton, “if she chose to stay among the sick folk in the stricken city; for Master Field would make thy blood cold to tell thee of it; but the Lady Dacre likes not Thornleigh, and wherefore should she?”
“Ay, wherefore, indeed?” echoed Mistress Philpot, looking at Edith.
These looks and hints made Edith uneasy; she resolved to ask her father what their meaning was, but she wisely forebore questioning the kindly dames beside her, both of whom, good-humored, honest, affectionate matrons, as they were, had no objections to a little innocent gossip.
“But Thornleigh has never been inhabited since I came to Cumberland, has it, Dame Dutton?” said Edith, “and yet this gentleman seemed to come from it to-day!”
“Ay, Sir Philip has been in foreign parts,” said the hostess, “traveling here-away, there-away. I can scarce tell you where: in France and a long away further off than France: in the countries, I reckon, where snow lies summer and winter, where they have that queen that is so wise, like the Queen of Sheba in the old times; and wonderful tales Master Fenton was telling of them, when you came in, Mistress Edith. So, from thence, the young knight came in a ship to Scotland, and after he had tarried awhile there (and Master Fenton do say it be dreadful to see how they torture decent folk yonder, for hearing a preaching or singing a psalm) he traveled up through the country, and came to Thornleigh last night—and this morning he was for starting again, but because his men could get naught decent from the old crazed housekeeper, he came to get them a right meal afore they should start on their journey. Does any thing ail you, Mistress Edith?”
Edith had risen from the table, and stood at the window.
“No, no,” she said, fastening her hood and mantle, nervously; “but yonder comes my father.”
A stout horse, with a pillion attached to its saddle, was led out as she spoke. Master Field crossed the court-yard hastily, and ascended the stairs. When he entered the room he drew his daughter to the window, and pointing to where an hostler led the animal about, made a last attempt to dissuade her from accompanying him. Edith said nothing in return: she only slid her hand through her father’s arm, and holding by him firmly, bade her kind friends farewell.
“Now father, I am ready; let us go.”