“So do I,” she said with a sigh, as he helped her down from her horse.
CHAPTER III.—COMPANIONSHIP.
The buxom landlady of “The Angel” remembered Frances and her four former visits to the inn, so she took charge of the girl in the most motherly way, fussing over her and seeing to her comfort.
“No, nothing is changed here,” she said, “though dear knows there’s trouble enough in the land, and strife and what not; good men going away and never coming home again, or coming back broken and torn. I’m sure I don’t know who’s in the right, but somebody’s deeply in the wrong, and God’s heavy hand is on us all. England will never be England again, I’m thinking. I waited on the King my own self in these rooms when he went north not so long ago, and kind and gentle he was to all about him. I’m sure I don’t know what he has done that his own folk should rise against him and pen him up in Oxford, as if God’s Providence had ended on earth, and His anointed was no more than Jack Lorimer the sweep. And the name of God is always on their lips, but I’m thinking if they talked less of Him and were kinder to His creatures they would be fitter to meet Him when their time came. But, dearie, I must n’t run on like this, for there are listening ears all about us, and a poor old body like me has been warned more than once. I fear it is not the King that is to blame, but them foreign people that’s ever at his ear, and I thought little of them when they were here. There must be something fell wrong when the nobility themselves turn against him. Well I mind when the great Earl of Strafford himself came south and stayed the night here. If he had lived things would have been different, for he looked more the King than the King himself. Ah, he was a man for you! There, there, dearie, you’re tired, and I go chattering along. But don’t you cry again, dearie, for it’s all long past and done with, and doubtless for the best, though our finite sight may not see that. What a babbling, thoughtless old wife I am; for I remember now, when you were here last, and I showed you the oriel window where Strafford sat, and told you the glint of your eye and the hold of your head reminded me of him, you sat there and wept and wept as if your heart would break. Kind-hearted you were, dearie, and I often thought of you and wondered how you were getting on. But now is not the time for tears, but for joy if ever you are to have it. I knew so comely a lass would not wander long alone, and that’s a fine man you’ve got. I saw how it was the moment you came, for the light in his face when he helped you down from your horse comes but once in a man’s lifetime and your own.”
“No, no, no, no! You are wrong. He is almost a stranger to me, but is a friend of my brother. He is nothing to me.”
“Do you tell me that? Well, well, we never know what the future holds for us, dearie, and unless I’m very much——”
“He was travelling this way, and my brother asked him to give me company. My brother was wounded and could not come.”
“Wounded? Oh, I am grieved at that. Many a brave lad——is it dangerous?”