Simon Dale | Page 4

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 mock admiration. "Do they teach such sayings hereabouts, sir?"
"Even so, madame, and from such books as your eyes furnish." And for all her air of mockery, I was, as I remember, much pleased with this speech. It had come from some well-thumbed romance, I doubt not. I was always an eager reader of such silly things.
She curtseyed low, laughing up at me with roguish eyes and mouth.
"Now, surely, sir," she said, "you must be Simon Dale, of whom my host the gardener speaks?"
"It is my name, madame, at your service. But the gardener has played me a trick; for now