"I gave the gentleman dinner in the cloister parlour, sir; and he is at
supper now," added the man.
Hubert nodded and pushed through the hall. He heard his name called
timidly from upstairs, and looking up saw his wife's golden head over the
banisters.
"Well!" he said.
"Ah, it is you. I am so glad."
"Who else should it be?" said Hubert, and passed through towards the
cloister wing, and opened the door of the little parlour where Isabel and
Mistress Margaret had sat together years before, the night of Mr. James'
return, and of the girl's decision.
A stranger rose up hastily as he came in, and bowed with great deference.
Hubert knew his face, but could not remember his name.
"I ask your pardon, Mr. Maxwell; but your man would take no denial," and
he indicated the supper-table with a steaming dish and a glass jug of
wine ruddy in the candlelight. Hubert looked at him curiously.
"I know you, sir," he said, "but I cannot put a name to your face."
"Lackington," said the man with a half smile; "Joseph Lackington."
Hubert still stared; and then suddenly burst into a short laugh.
"Why, yes," he said; "I know now. My father's servant."
The man bowed.
"Formerly, sir; and now agent to Sir Francis Walsingham," he said, with
something of dignity in his manner.
Hubert saw the hint, but could not resist a small sneer.
"Why, I am pleased to see you," he said. "You have come to see your
old--home?" and he threw himself into a chair and stretched his legs to
the blaze, for he was stiff with riding.
Pages:
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572