Lindley’s brows were black and his lips, too, were curled. But curses were the rods that twisted them.
“What devil’s work is the girl up to now?” he demanded, savagely. “She’s doubtless met some ne’er-do-well unbeknown to Master Ogilvie. I must see Mistress Judith at once, on the very instant, and have it out with her.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Johan, the player’s boy. “You’ll but drive her on in any prank she’s bent on.”
“Then it’s Master Ogilvie I’ll see,” declared Lindley. “Where have all your eyes been that the girl could have met a lover; that she could have seen anyone with whom to fall in love? She must not fall in love with anyone save me. Do you hear, boy? I love her. I love her.”
“Ah, then it is your heart that’s engaged in this matter,” commented Johan. “I thought, perhaps—why, perhaps it was merely Mistress Judith’s defiance of her father’s wishes that led you on to wish to marry her. You—you really do love Mistress Judith, for herself? Really love her as a lover ought to love?”
“You’re over curious, my lad,” growled Lindley. “And yet ’tis my own fault, I suppose. I’ve given you my confidence.”
“But how know you that you love Mistress Judith?” persisted the boy.
“I love her—I love her because I’ve loved her always,” answered Lindley, passionately. “I loved her when I was ten, when she was six, when her golden head was no higher than my heart.”
“’Tis somewhat higher now, I think.” The boy’s words were very low. “More like her heart would match to yours. Her eyes are as high above the ground as your own. Her lips would not be raised to meet your lips.”
Lindley’s face had grown scarlet.