Simon Dale | Page 4

in his eye, "the King has strange
secrets, and there is some strange wine in his cup, and to love where he
loves----"; but at this point the Vicar, who chanced to be by, twinkled
also, but shifted the conversation to some theme which did not touch
the King, his secrets, his wine, or where he loved.
Thus then I saw, as I say, the slim tall figure, the dark hair, and the
proud eyes of Barbara Quinton; and the eyes were flashing in anger as
their owner turned away from--what I had not looked to see in
Barbara's company. This was another damsel, of lower stature and
plumper figure, dressed full as prettily as Barbara herself, and laughing
with most merry lips and under eyes that half hid themselves in an
eclipse of mirth. When Barbara saw me, she did not, as her custom was,
feign not to see me till I thrust my presence on her, but ran to me at
once, crying very indignantly, "Simon, who is this girl? She has dared
to tell me that my gown is of country make and hangs like an old
smock on a beanpole."
"Mistress Barbara," I answered, "who heeds the make of the gown
when the wearer is of divine make?" I was young then, and did not
know that to compliment herself at the expense of her apparel is not the
best way to please a woman.

"You are silly," said Barbara. "Who is she?"
"The girl," said I, crestfallen, "is, they tell me, from London, and she
lodges with her mother in your gardener's cottage. But I didn't look to
find her here in the avenue."
"You shall not again if I have my way," said Barbara. Then she added
abruptly and sharply, "Why do you look at her?"
Now, it was true that I was looking at the stranger, and on Barbara's
question I looked the harder.
"She is mighty pretty," said I. "Does she not seem so to you, Mistress
Barbara?" And, simple though I was, I spoke not altogether in
simplicity.
"Pretty?" echoed Barbara. "And pray what do you know of prettiness,
Master Simon?"
"What I have learnt at Quinton Manor," I answered, with a bow.
"That doesn't prove her pretty," retorted the angry lady.
"There's more than one way of it," said I discreetly, and I took a step
towards the visitor, who stood some ten yards from us, laughing still
and plucking a flower to pieces in her fingers.
"She isn't known to you?" asked Barbara, perceiving my movement.
"I can remedy that," said I, smiling.
Never since the world began had youth been a more faithful servant to
maid than I to Barbara Quinton. Yet because, if a man lie down, the
best of girls will set her pretty foot on his neck, and also from my love
of a thing that is new, I was thoroughly resolved to accost the
gardener's guest; and my purpose was not altered by Barbara's scornful
toss of her little head as she turned away.
"It is no more than civility," I protested, "to ask after her health, for,

coming from London, she can but just have escaped the plague."
Barbara tossed her head again, declaring plainly her opinion of my
excuse.
"But if you desire me to walk with you----" I began.
"There is nothing I thought of less," she interrupted. "I came here to be
alone."
"My pleasure lies in obeying you," said I, and I stood bareheaded while
Barbara, without another glance at me, walked off towards the house.
Half penitent, yet wholly obstinate, I watched her go; she did not once
look over her shoulder. Had she--but a truce to that. What passed is
enough; with what might have, my story would stretch to the world's
end. I smothered my remorse, and went up to the stranger, bidding her
good-day in my most polite and courtly manner; she smiled, but at
what I knew not. She seemed little more than a child, sixteen years old
or seventeen at the most, yet there was no confusion in her greeting of
me. Indeed, she was most marvellously at her ease, for, on my salute,
she cried, lifting her hands in feigned amazement,
"A man, by my faith; a man in this place!"
Well pleased to be called a man, I bowed again.
"Or at least," she added, "what will be one, if it please Heaven."
"You may live to see it without growing wrinkled," said I, striving to
conceal my annoyance.
"And one that has repartee in him! Oh, marvellous!"
"We do not all lack wit in the country, madame," said I, simpering as I
supposed the Court gallants to simper, "nor, since the plague came to
London, beauty."
"Indeed, it's wonderful," she cried in