"Father," he said at last, turning round, "I ask your pardon."
Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and his
mouth twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took.
"And I was a coward to speak like that--but, but--I will try," went on
the boy. "And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will that
do? And I will go away for a while."
The father threw his arms round him.
As the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and meadows with
wealth, the little Italian garden to the south-west of the Hall was
where my lady spent most of the day. Here she would cause chairs to be
brought out for Mistress Margaret and herself, and a small selection of
devotional books, an orange leather volume powdered all over with
pierced hearts, filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another book
called _Le Chappellet de Jesus_, while from her girdle beside her
pocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured "Hours of the Blessed
Virgin," fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged from the binding.
Here the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yew hedge,
taking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now and
then in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by the hum of
insects in the hot air, or the quick flight of a bird in the tall trees
behind the hedge.
Here too Isabel often came, also bringing her embroidery; and sat and
talked and watched the wrinkled tranquil faces of the two old ladies, and
envied their peace.
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