“What, so solitary a nymph, so country hidden, and yet so learned of the gossip of the great world?”
“People talk,” she murmured, crimsoning as in the deepest shame.
“And you know what they call me? No! Not the Great Earl, hypocrite, the Wicked Earl! You knew it?”
She bent her head.
He laughed again. “Why, now, what a nightmare for you! Here he lies, and, oh! Pomona, you have prolonged his infamous career!”
* * * * *
The Wicked Earl was an angelic patient for two days. On the third he was promoted to the oak settle, wrapped in a garment of the late farmer’s, of which he made much kindly mirth. It was a golden day of joy in the lonely farmhouse.
On the fourth morning, however, he wakened to a mood of seriousness, not to say ill-temper. His first words were to request writing paper and a quill, ink and the great seal that hung on his watch chain.
Pomona stood by while he wrote; helped him with paper and wax. She saw into how deep a frown his brows were contracted, and her heart seemed altogether to fail her. She expected the end; it was coming swiftly, and not as she expected it.
“May I trespass on your kindness so far as to send a horseman with this letter to the castle?” said he, very formally.