“Ha!” exclaimed the little Duchess again, and sat turning a pea-pod idly in her small fingers. “And yet, Herminia hath a noble heart, a warmly generous nature ... though the sweet soul can be a fierce, passionate wretch.... But, alack, John, she never knew a mother’s fostering care ... she was spoiled, petted and pampered and became the idol of her wild and reckless father.... Aye me!... John Derwent, look at me and show me John Dering’s heart. Do you indeed so love—Rose?” “Beyond all expression!” he answered, looking into the eyes that questioned his so keenly. “Why, then, John,” said she at last, “were I in thy place, I should forget John Derwent’s so great humility awhile—just ... for a moment!” “A moment?” “Well, say two moments, John ... or even three!... O Sir John Dering, art grown so strangely dense?” Then Sir John rose. “A moment,” he repeated, “two moments, or even three!” Taking her Grace’s two small hands, he kissed them rapturously. “Thou dear, kind friend,” quoth he, “thy trust, thy faith in ‘the poor dog with a bad name’ shall, methinks, resolve all my difficulties.... It shall be three! At the stile beyond the little footbridge.” CHAPTER XXXV BEING THE SHORTEST IN THIS BOOK Sunset had long since paled its splendour; evening was fading into night, a warm and languorous twilight where stars peeped and a waxing radiance gave promise of a moon, while from wood remote, vague, mysterious stole the bubbling murmur of a night-jar. And my Lady Herminia, having crossed the little footbridge that spanned whispering stream, paused to lean upon the adjacent stile, viewing all things tender-eyed, from the homely lights of Alfriston, twinkling here and there beyond dim-seen trees, to the far-flung majesty of the swelling, silent Downs beyond. Yet, it is to be supposed, she was by no means unconscious of him who stood beside her, though she started when at last he spoke. “This,” said Sir John, “is the stile beyond the little footbridge.” “Well?” she inquired, a little breathlessly. “Won’t you say ‘John’?” “Well, John?” she repeated obediently. “And it is an aged stile, Rose. See how warped are its timbers. And consequently ’tis very like that many a man hath kissed his maid here.... Say ‘Yes, John.’” “Yes, John.” “And yet, Rose, as I do think, none of them all ever kissed with such reverent fervour as we are about to do.... Say ‘Never in all the world, John!’” “Nay ... oh, wait!” she cried more breathlessly than ever. “Indeed, I am in no haste,” he answered. “But here to-night, Rose, thou and I that so love each other, do plight our troth....” “Art sure I love thee, then?” she questioned. “’Tis so I have dared dream, child.” “And how if I—do not?” “Then is the sun out and I lost i’ the dark.” “Art so—very assured?” she questioned again; and then his arms were about her and he drew her close, lifting her unwilling head that he might look into her eyes.