“I was never your friend, Sylvia,” said Sir John.
“Ah, the old wrangle!” said the lady, and smiled a little wistfully. “My dear and very honored lover, then; and I am come to see him here.”
“Ay!” interrupted Sir John, rather hastily; and he proceeded, glowing with benevolence: “A quiet, orderly place, where I bestow my patronage; the woman of the house had once a husband in my company. God rest his soul! he bore a good pike. He retired in his old age and ’stablished this tavern, where he passed his declining years, till death called him gently away from this naughty world. God rest his soul, say I!”
This was a somewhat euphemistic version of the taking-off of Goodman Quickly, who had been knocked over the head with a joint-stool while rifling the pockets of a drunken guest; but perhaps Sir John wished to speak well of the dead, even at the price of conferring upon the present home of Sir John an idyllic atmosphere denied it by the London constabulary.
“And you for old memories’ sake yet aid his widow?” the lady murmured. “That is like you, John.”
There was another silence, and the fire crackled more loudly than ever.
“And are you sorry that I come again, in a worse body, John, strange and time-ruined?”
“Sorry?” echoed Sir John; and, ungallant as it was, he hesitated a moment before replying: “No, faith! But there are some ghosts that will not easily bear raising, and you have raised one.”
“We have summoned up no very fearful spectre, I think,” replied the lady; “at most, no worse than a pallid, gentle spirit that speaks—to me, at least—of a boy and a girl who loved each other and were very happy a great while ago.”
“Are you come hither to seek that boy?” asked the knight, and chuckled, though not merrily. “The boy that went mad and rhymed of you in those far-off dusty years? He is quite dead, my lady; he was drowned, mayhap, in a cup of wine. Or he was slain, perchance, by a few light women. I know not how he died. But he is quite dead, my lady, and I had not been haunted by his ghost until today.”
He stared at the floor as he ended; then choked, and broke into a fit of coughing which unromantic chance brought on just now, of all times.
“He was a dear boy,” she said, presently; “a boy who loved a young maid very truly; a boy that found the maid’s father too strong and shrewd for desperate young lovers—Eh, how long ago it seems, and what a flood of tears the poor maid shed at being parted from that dear boy!”
“Faith!” admitted Sir John, “the rogue had his good points.”
“Ah, John, you have not forgotten, I know,” the lady said, looking up into his face, “and, you will believe me that I am very heartily sorry for the pain I brought into your life?”
“My wounds heal easily,” said Sir John.
“For though my dear dead father was too wise for us, and knew it was for the best that I should not accept your love, believe me, John, I always knew the value of that love, and have held it an honor that any woman must prize.”
“Dear lady,” the knight suggested, with a slight grimace, “the world is not altogether of your opinion.”
“I know not of the world,” she said; “for we live away from it. But we have heard of you ever and anon; I have your life quite letter-perfect for these forty years or more.”
“You have heard of me?” asked Sir John; and, for a seasoned knave, he looked rather uncomfortable.
“As a gallant and brave soldier,” she answered; “of how you fought at sea with Mowbray that was afterward Duke of Norfolk; of your knighthood by King Richard; of how you slew the Percy at Shrewsbury; and captured Coleville o’ late in Yorkshire; and how the Prince, that now is King, did love you above all men; and, in fine, of many splendid doings in the great world.”
Sir John raised a protesting hand. He said, with commendable modesty: “I have fought somewhat. But we are not Bevis of Southampton; we have slain no giants. Heard you naught else?”
“Little else of note,” replied the lady; and went on, very quietly: “But we are proud of you at home in Norfolk. And such tales as I have heard I have woven together in one story; and I have told it many times to my children as we sat on the old Chapel steps at evening, and the shadows lengthened across the lawn, and I bid them emulate this, the most perfect knight and gallant gentleman that I have known. And they love you, I think, though but by repute.”
Once more silence fell between them; and the fire grinned wickedly at the mimic fire reflected by the old chest, as though it knew of a most entertaining secret.
“Do you yet live at Winstead?” asked Sir John, half idly.
“Yes,” she answered; “in the old house. It is little changed, but there are many changes about.”
“Is Moll yet with you that did once carry our letters?”
“Married to Hodge, the tanner,” the lady said; “and dead long since.”
“And all our merry company?” Sir John demanded. “Marian? And Tom and little Osric? And Phyllis? And Adelais? Zounds, it is like a breath of country air to speak their names once more.”
“All dead,” she answered, in a hushed voice, “save Adelais, and even to me poor Adelais seems old and strange. Walter was slain in the French wars, and she hath never married.”
“All dead,” Sir John informed the fire, as if confidentially; then he laughed, though his bloodshot eyes were not merry. “This same Death hath a wide maw! It is not
