“Speak plainly, Ben.”
“Why,” said he, “here I come and find yonder fine gentleman, whom you picked up on the wayside, philandering under the apple-trees with our two sweethearts. Body o’ me! I like it not. Why, as I live, he was rendering to them a sonnet that he had written this morning. A sonnet!”
“How will that hurt them, Ben? Let the lasses be amused. I do not think thou couldst write a sonnet.”
“As to that,” he answered, “I do not know. I could, I suppose, make ‘eyes’ rhyme with ‘skies,’ and ‘dove’ with ‘love,’ and so on, but that is neither here nor there. I tell thee, Will, I like it not.”
“Thou art a fool, Ben, to speak plainly, if thou thinkest that Lucy would give her heart to another man when she has given it to thee already. Fie upon thee, Ben! Why, thou shouldst trust her all in all.”
“Yea,” said he, looking somewhat ashamed of himself, “and so I do, Will, so I do. God knows I do, old Will—but, then, thou seest ’tis this way. ’Tis such a handsome gentleman, this officer, and hath such a mighty pretty manner of talking, and cannot even pass you a tankard of small beer without a bow and a compliment.”
“And what of that, man?”
“Why, as thou knowest, I have none of these airs and graces. I do not remember that anybody ever said I was handsome, for, indeed, my nose it is a snub, and my hair is red, and I have thought that my left ear was somewhat longer than my right. And when I stand up beside this fine gentleman, Will, I am at a disadvantage. Thou knowest that maidens do notice these things, and I am afraid that Lucy should make comparisons between me and Captain Trevor.”
“It is true,” said I musingly, “that thy nose is a snub.”
“It is, it is,” said he, turning very red. “Yes, it is, Will.”
“And that thy hair is somewhat red in colour.”
“Yes, yes; I said so just now.”
“And as for thy ears, I have myself noticed that one of them is bigger than the other.”
“I know it,” he groaned. “I thought somebody must have seen it.”
“And then thy mouth,” I continued, “is a good deal too wide, and one eye is set lower down in thy face than the other.”
“Oh!”
“In short, Ben, thou art not beautiful, but very plain.”
“Yes—as plain as a hayfork.”
“But thou hast a good heart, and I think the womenfolk who know thee could put up with right-down ugliness for the sake of it. What, man! you are a despairing lover.”
So I rallied him, having no fears about my own sweetheart, whose heart, I knew without question, was mine, and mine forever. Nay, I think that if I had seen her amidst a crowd of gay gallants, and each one paying compliments to her, it would not have troubled me, for she had given me her word, and nothing could have made me doubt her. And then, only the night before, as we walked under the orchard trees in the moonlight, I had teased her about this fine gentleman, and had been answered according to my wishes.
“You will think your poor Will but dull company,” I said, “when Captain Trevor goes away from us. Can you not get him to teach me some of his accomplishments?”
“And what accomplishments would you learn?” she answered quickly. “Do you think, Will, that I should love you any the better if you could sing a French love-song or scribble a bad sonnet? It is you that I love, my dear, and you are enough.”
And with that I was content, and if it had not been plenty, I had only to look into her dear eyes to read double assurance of the great love that she had for me. So you see that I was only amused when poor Ben came to me with his doubts and fears.
But while I had not found it possible to believe that either Lucy or Rose should fall in love with Captain Trevor, I had not calculated on the effect they might either of them produce on him. It did not occur to me that, thrown into their society as he was, he would naturally fall in love with one of them. And yet, considering that they were both good and beautiful maidens, I ought to have thought of it, and probably should have done if I had not been inexperienced in such matters.
The morning after Ben’s complaint to me, Captain Trevor came up to my side, as I stood in the stackyard, and asked me to walk aside with him. I noticed that he looked somewhat careworn and haggard.
“Master Dale,” said he, “I am going to leave you today.”
“I am sorry, sir,” I answered. “You do not look fit to ride yet awhile. I am afraid my mother will not let you go.”
“Alas!” said he, smiling, “your good mother has spoiled me, I fear. Never, I think, has man had such kind treatment as I have had in this house.”
“Then stay, sir,” I said. “We shall be glad of your company as long as ever it pleases you to be with us. And you are not fit for service yet, I think.”
“No,” he answered. “No, I must lay up for a while yet. You are very kind. But it must not be.”
He went away from me a little space and walked a while by himself under the apple-trees, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him, so that it seemed as if he were engaged in deep thought. But presently he came to me again and stood before me.
“Master Dale,” said he, looking me frankly and honestly in the face, “why should I not tell you all that is in my mind? You have been so kind to me, you and yours, that it would seem wrong to me if I did not open my heart to
