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At noon home to dinner, where Mr. Jackson go to find my cozen Roger Pepys, which I did in the Parliament House, where I met him and Sir Thomas Crew and Mr. George Montagu, who are mighty busy how to save my Lord's name from being in the Report for anything which the Committee is commanded to report to the House of the miscarriages of the late war.
The meal at first was a comparatively silent one, but Roger noted with a contemptuous glance that his sister's hair was arranged more neatly than he had seen it since the previous Sunday, and that her calico dress, collar, and cuffs were scrupulously clean. "Expecting company?" he asked maliciously. She understood him and flushed resentfully.
"And to think," she cried, "that it should have been Norman of Torn who fulfilled your duties for you. But he did not capture Sir Peter's head, my friend; that is still at large to be brought to me upon a golden dish." "I have not forgotten, Lady Bertrade," said Roger de Conde. "Peter of Colfax will return." The girl glanced at him quickly. "The very words of the Outlaw of Torn," she said.
Miss Blount is a true woman, her hauteur of a moment since vanishes like snow, and compassion takes its place. "What is making you wretched?" she asks, in a tone meant to be severe, but which is only friendly. "When I remember what a fool I have been," begins Roger, rather as if he is following out a train of thought than answering her.
Therefore, after having spoke with Mr. Godolphin and cozen Roger, I away home, and there do find everything in mighty good order, only my wife not dressed, which troubles me. And there, among other things, my Lord had Sir Samuel Morland's late invention for casting up of sums of L. s. d.; which is very pretty, but not very useful.
Never had such a light shone in those beautiful eyes for Roger; never would it so shine for him; and he knew it well, with a dull, miserable sickening of the heart, which was like a pinch from the hand of Death. In a moment the whole face of the world had changed for him.
An outdoor man, like Roger, who has hunted and shot and fished all his life?" "Of course I can imagine! It's all too dreadful to think of! . . . But now Peter's free, you can't you can't mean to give him up for Roger!" "I must," answered Nan quietly. "I can't take the last thing he values from a man who's lost nearly everything." Kitty grasped her by the arm.
"He said he knew you'd be here soon without that." And he led the way to Eskew's bedside. Joe and the doctor had undressed the old man, and had put him into night-gear of Roger Tabor's, taken from an antique chest; it was soft and yellow and much more like color than the face above it, for the white hair on the pillow was not whiter than that.
To Roger, in a nervous ecstasy of anticipation, the story was a blurred hodge-podge of phrases and crackling fire, distant noises of clinking china and hurrying feet, and wild flights of imagination.... Old Asher must be coming past the red barn now ... and now down the hill ... and now past the Deacon's pond ... and now
Our poor fellows" he spoke of the English remnant "have suffered severely. Where is Felix?" "We are on our way to look for him; I fear he has fallen." Roger turned and went with us. "I saw him with the flag," he remarked. "'Twas a gallant deed. It helped us to win the battle. By my word, Cossé must have lost frightfully; the field just here looks carpeted with the dead."
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