The Nest of the Sparrowhawk | Page 5

moment, when everything that was beautiful in art as
well as in nature was condemned as sinful and ungodly; she wore the
dark kirtle and plain, ungainly bodice with its hard white kerchief
folded over her ample bosom; her hair was parted down the middle and
brushed smoothly and flatly to her ears, where but a few curls were
allowed to escape with well-regulated primness from beneath the
horn-comb, and the whole appearance of her looked almost grotesque,
surmounted as it was by the modish high-peaked beaver hat, a marvel

of hideousness and discomfort, since the small brim afforded no
protection against the sun, and the tall crown was a ready prey to the
buffetings of the wind.
Mistress Fairsoul Pyncheon too, was there, the wife of the Squire of
Ashe; thin and small, a contrast to Dame Harrison in her mild and
somewhat fussy manner; her plain petticoat, too, was embellished with
paniers, and in spite of the heat of the day she wore a tippet edged with
fur: both of which frivolous adornments had obviously stirred up the
wrath of her more Puritanical neighbor.
Then there were the men: busy at this moment with hurling wooden
balls along the alley, at the further end of which a hollow-eyed scraggy
youth, in shirt and rough linen trousers, was employed in propping up
again the fallen nine-pins. Squire John Boatfield had ridden over from
Eastry, Sir Timothy Harrison had come in his aunt's coach, and young
Squire Pyncheon with his doting mother.
And in the midst of all these sober folk, of young men in severe
garments, of portly dames and frowning squires, a girlish figure, young,
alert, vigorous, wearing with the charm of her own youth and freshness
the unbecoming attire, which disfigured her elders yet seemed to set off
her own graceful form, her dainty bosom and pretty arms. Her kirtle,
too, was plain, and dull in color, of a soft dovelike gray, without
adornment of any kind, but round her shoulders her kerchief was
daintily turned, edged with delicate lace, and showing through its filmy
folds peeps of her own creamy skin.
'Twas years later that Sir Peter Lely painted Lady Sue when she was a
great lady and the friend of the Queen: she was beautiful then, in the
full splendor of her maturer charms, but never so beautiful as she was
on that hot July afternoon in the year of our Lord 1657, when, heated
with the ardor of the game, pleased undoubtedly with the adulation
which surrounded her on every side, she laughed and chatted with the
men, teased the women, her cheeks aglow, her eyes bright, her brown
hair--persistently unruly--flying in thick curls over her neck and
shoulders.

"A remarkable talent, good Sir Marmaduke," Dame Harrison was
saying to her host, as she cast a complacent eye on her nephew, who
had just succeeded in overthrowing three nine-pins at one stroke: "Sir
Timothy hath every aptitude for outdoor pursuits, and though my Lord
Protector deems all such recreations sinful, yet do I think they tend to
the development of muscular energy, which later on may be placed at
the service of the Commonwealth."
Sir Timothy Harrison at this juncture had the misfortune of expending
his muscular energy in hitting Squire Boatfield violently on the shin
with an ill-aimed ball.
"Damn!" ejaculated the latter, heedless of the strict fines imposed by
my Lord Protector on unseemly language. "I ... verily beg the ladies'
pardon ... but ... this young jackanapes nearly broke my shin-bone."
There certainly had been an exclamation of horror on the part of the
ladies at Squire Boatfield's forcible expression of annoyance, Dame
Harrison taking no pains to conceal her disapproval.
"Horrid, coarse creature, this neighbor of yours, good Sir Marmaduke,"
she said with her usual air of decision. "Meseems he is not fit company
for your ward."
"Dear Squire Boatfield," sighed Mistress Pyncheon, who was evidently
disposed to be more lenient, "how good-humoredly he bears it! Clumsy
people should not be trusted in a skittle alley," she added in a mild way,
which seemed to be peculiarly exasperating to Dame Harrison's
irascible temper.
"I pray you, Sir Timothy," here interposed Lady Sue, trying to repress
the laughter which would rise to her lips, "forgive poor Squire John.
You scarce can expect him to moderate his language under such
provocation."
"Oh! his insults leave me completely indifferent," said the young man
with easy unconcern, "his calling me a jackanapes doth not of necessity
make me one."

"No!" retorted Squire Boatfield, who was still nursing his shin-bone,
"maybe not, Sir Timothy, but it shows how observant I am."
"Oliver, pick up Lady Sue's handkerchief," came in mild accents from
Mistress Pyncheon.
"Quite unnecessary, good mistress," rejoined Dame Harrison decisively,
"Sir Timothy has already seen it."