Mistress Penwick | Page 7

so great
a house, 'tis better than--than the convent. How soon shall I have fine
frocks and jewels and--a beau like yonder one on the stairway?"
"Thou art becoming exercised prematurely; his Lordship may not
condescend to visit his puling babe before his guests depart. In such
case, thou wilt have time to cool thy haste. I will go now. Do not eat
too much, Lambkin." Janet looked back admiringly as she left the room;
her eyes upon her mistress' daintily ruddy face, smiling at her from
between two tall candles.
Every appointment of room and table was essentially English, and
Mistress Katherine cast her eye about wondering if 'twas so, or, were
they Scotch? She inclined to the former, and a sigh of relief and
happiness escaped her.
Suddenly there was a sound of hurrying footsteps with an
accompanying one of broad Scotch oaths in no low key. A lackey
carrying a bag-pipe rushed into the room and out again without
noticing its occupant. At his very heels was a big Scotchman of large
and ridiculous proportions; red hair, red face, red whiskers, red
mustachios, and bandy-legs, petticoats and all; and a tongue ripping out
hot oaths. In a moment Katherine was upon her feet, her eyes flashed
forth indignation. The keen eyes of the Scot saw her at a glance. He
looked, stared, then bent almost to the floor before her and waited thus
for her to speak. She, not accustomed to the masculine courtesies of

polite breeding, thought his attitude was too prolonged for either a bow
of homage or humiliation; and she straightway in a voice that was
tremulous with emotion, said:
"Has the bitterness of thy tongue taken root in thy stomach?" Quickly
he raised himself at her first word and gazed with enamoured looks at
the amber folds of hair, her glowing face; and with panting breath his
eyes rested upon the round fulness of her form as it palpitated with
rightful perturbance.
"Betake thyself before I inform Lord Cedric of thy presence!" And she
rapped smartly her knife-handle upon the table. "Betake thyself,
begone!" He did not stir nor find breath until she stood forth from the
table and he saw her beauteous being from head to dainty toe of
convent sandal. Then he found voice, and in broad Scotch begged her
clemency, advancing toward her the while and almost kneeling in his
humility.
"If I did not know the queen--"
"'Tis presuming for thee to speak of knowing her; thou dishonourest the
noble plaid thou wearest. Begone from me, sir, instantly. Begone, I
say!"
"Nay, I shall not begone. Tell me who thou art, I know thee not!"
"Tell thee? Nay, 'twould displease my lord if he knew I held converse
with thee thus. He would no doubt send thee from the castle."
"But who is thy lord, pray?"
"Lord Cedric of Crandlemar!"
"Ah, ah,--but it does not displease him. Lord Cedric says thou shalt talk
to him the balance of his days." The maid shrunk further from him in
sheer loathing. At the moment Janet entered, and the rough Scot turned
upon her, and in a voice of command, said,--

"Who is this maid, woman?" Janet scanned him for a moment and a bit
of truth flashed upon her.
"'Tis the honoured daughter of Sir John Penwick," and she bowed to the
floor.
"Ah! ah!!" He retreated in dismay and for a moment was silent,
encumbered with emotions of surprise, admiration, wonderment and
doubt. "Then thou art my ward and thou hatest me already--"
"Thou, thou Lord Cedric, the master of this great house?" And
Katherine in the confidence of Janet's presence, laughed in scorn and
swept from the room disdaining his commands to remain longer. For a
moment he stood stunned as it were; then started toward the door and
looked after their retreating forms, exclaiming the while,--
"Ah!--ah!! Thou a convent baggage ordering the lord of the castle from
thy presence. Never have I been so talked to before. Damn me, I love
thy gorgeous self, thy beauteous body; thou my ward to have and to
hold. I may if I choose say to thee, thou shalt, or thou shalt not. Hey,
hey, there, Christopher!" He knocked loudly upon the panelling of the
door. A lackey entered trepidated. "Go and bring in haste from Wasson
the letter written by Sir John Penwick. Haste thee, mind!" He turned to
the table as if the shadow of her being still rested there and spoke the
continuation of his thought. "'Tis a bit of paper, Mistress Katherine,
that has become of more worth than a king's ransom. The last will and
testament of Sir John Penwick bequeathing to my father a priceless
property,--Thou wert slow, Christopher, but I forgive thee." He tore the
letter