"But old Sir Michael," says Ned, "had no son of your youth."
"Nay," said I, "I am no son of Sir Michael. But he is my nearest of kin, and in his house do I live this many a day."
"Ah, so! I have heard," said Royston musingly, "of other branches of the family. But, if Drayton be your home, you can tell me of—of the child, your cousin; of Mistress Philippa Drayton, I mean, Sir Michael's daughter."
"Aha! the little maid! At last we come at his little maid!" I cried, clapping my hands together in a manner that suited but ill, as I suppose, with my boots and spurs.
But he, like the man he was, being much occupied in attempt to conceal the secret he was about revealing, did not mark me, but sternly stiffened his face and made straight his back, and replied: "I said not it was she. But I would have her news. Is she well, and is she now at Drayton?"
"Gad 's my life!" I answered, feeling very blusterous and naughty as I used my father's favorite oath, "it is so. She is well, and she is at Drayton. I would she were not. She does keep her heart safe for me, the baggage! Troth, I have little mind to her—a bouncing, overgrown country wench, of ill manners, loud tongue, and shrewish speech. Pah!" Whereat I twisted my mouth into a grimace very disgustful, and I saw the light of anger come into his eye.
"You shall not so speak of that lady," he said, in a tone that was not loud, yet had in it that which made one part of me shake with fear, while the rest of the woman was singing a little inward song of thanksgiving. Whereof it is like enough he saw in my face some sign, for he went on more gently to say he knew it was not so; that I but railed at her in mischief; that I mocked at him because, with something womanish that is in a half-grown boy, I had divined the secret of his love. "My heart," he said, rising from his seat with eyes that looked afar, as if none was by him, "has never left her keeping since she did ride upon my shoulder, but her little hands ever hold me fast, even as they did use to cling and grip me by the hair." With that he passed his hand over his head, as if he still did feel the clutching baby fingers. Then he came back to me. "You see, sir, I let you know at what it is you mock. Yet if you own the words were but spoken in jest, I will pass the matter by."
And then I knew that I had been playing with fire, and made all haste to quench it, owning with averted face that I had indeed but spoken out of mischief to anger him, and saying that the girl was well enough. It was, I suppose, from pride that he took no note of this grudging opinion, yet it did not control his curiosity.
"And does she keep me in mind?" he asked, as he sank again into his seat.
"'T is like enough," I answered, as if I cared little for the matter. "I have heard her name you."