She had talked of Will Underwood, of his easy gallantry, and Nance had thought her heartless; yet she had sought only a refuge from the stress of feeling that was too hard for her to bear.
She moved up and down the parlour, in her haphazard, useless way. Her husband had ridden out on a venture high and dangerous; and she was setting a cushion to rights here, smoothing the fold of a curtain there, with the intentness of a kitten that sees no farther than its playthings. But under all there was a fierce, insistent heartache, a rebellion against the weakness that hindered her. She began to think of Rupert, to understand, little by little, how near together they were, he and she. Her cowardice seemed lifted away by friendly hands, as she told herself that she would go up and sit at the lad’s bedside. She had known him too little in years past; there was time now to repair mistakes.
Simon Foster was watching the master, as he lay in that sleep of sheer exhaustion, following long effort and self-doubt, which was giving him strength and respite before the morrow needed him. Simon heard a low tapping at the door, opened it, saw Lady Royd standing on the threshold.
“Is he asking for me?” she said diffidently.
“No, my lady. He’s asking for twelve hours o’ sleep--and he’ll get them, if I’ve any say i’ the matter.”
“But you’ll be tired, Simon, and I--I am wide awake. Let me sit by him----”
“You’re kind,” he interrupted bluntly; “but I’m watch-dog here, by your leave. It happens to be war, not peace--and no offence, my lady.”
She turned, aware that a man was in command here; and Simon was left to his interrupted musings.
“By the Heart,” he growled, “if only he could find his way! He’s lean and weak; but the lad’s keen, hard-bitten pluck--it’s killing him before his time, it is. He can find no outlet for it, like.”
SIR JASPER, riding sometimes at the head of his men, at others near the Prince, had little time for backward thoughts during this surprising march. Each day was full of peril; but each day, too, was full of chance humours of the road, of those odds and ends of traffic by the way which turn men’s thoughts from a too deep, unpractical thinking of the high Cause only to the means by which step by step, it is to be attained.