Simon Sproule came to see him when he was seated at breakfast, a good deal shrunk and wasted, but bearing himself with his brave and confident air for all the troubles he had passed through. The young soldier was one of the linendraper´s heroes, and Simon had come this morning to offer abundant incense at the altar of his worship.
“We are both proud of you, Mr. Orme, Elizabeth and myself. I heard the whole story from Andrew Douglas last night, and it was done like an ancient Roman, sir, but in no foreign or pagan spirit. It was a great feat and should be remembered for many a day.”
“It will be forgotten in good time,” said Gervase cheerfully, “and was no very wonderful business after all. But I am glad for your sake the fighting is over, for yours and your wife´s and----”
“Do not mention them. Oh! I cannot bear it, sir. There were eight of them when you came back with the old captain, eight white-haired youngsters that gathered about the table and made music for me--and now there are but four of them. It was the judgment of God for their father´s cowardice.”
“I think you did your best, Simon,” Gervase said gently.
“I did all that I could, and that was nothing; but it was the pretending that was my sin. I, who was made for nothing but to measure lace and lawns, should not have given myself over as a man of war, and boasted of deeds that I knew that I could not perform. It has broken their mother´s heart, and I think it has broken mine. I cannot think they are gone; indeed I cannot. Why, I stood listening to their footsteps on the stairs even as I came into your room, and I heard them calling ‘Daddy,´ every one of them. But ´tis a sin to mourn.”
“Nay, nay, man, weep to your heart´s content, and tell them I said a man´s tears are as manly as his courage. We must all face it some day.”
“I cannot help it,” said Simon, drying his eyes, “but you do not know what it is for a father to part with the red-cheeked boys he loved: we have come through a great tribulation.”
“Thank God there is an end of it now. In a day or two there will not be an Irish Regiment north of the Boyne, and I hope we´ll get back to the works of peace again. I myself will turn husbandman and beat my sword into a pruning hook.”