Rupert had overheard them, it seemed; and through all these days of strain and waiting he had not spoken of his trouble, had let it eat inward like a fire. As if in punishment for the indifference of earlier years, Lady Royd’s perception of all that touched her son was clear to the least detail now. With her new gift of motherhood, of courting pain for its own sake, she retraced, step by step, the meaning of these last few days to Rupert. He had grown used to the sense that he stood apart from stronger men, unable to share full life with them; but always, behind it all, he had been sure, until a little while ago, that his father trusted him to prove his manhood one day. She went to him, and put her arms about him, as any cottage mother might have done. “Oh, my boy--my boy!” she cried, understanding the fierceness, the loneliness, of this last trouble. In this mood of his, with his back to the wall which no man asked him to defend, Rupert could have withstood many dangers; but sympathy exasperated him. “It is hard for my father,” he said, with desperate simplicity. “There was never a weak link in the Royd chain till I was born the heir. Why did I come to--to bring him shame?” Some ruggedness, borrowed from the land that was hers by marriage, bade Lady Royd stand straight and take her punishment. “I will tell you why,” she said, her voice passionate and low; “I hindered you before your birth. I went riding when your father bade me rest at home--and my horse fell----” “Just as mine did when I went to join the Rising,” said Rupert, following his own train of thought. “Mother, I should have been with the Prince’s army now if--if my horse had not stumbled.” Lady Royd crossed to the mantel, leaned her head awhile on the cool oak of it. “Yes,” she said, turning sharply. “Yes, Rupert. It has taken five-and-twenty years--but I’m answering for that ride of mine.” He looked at her in wonder. And suddenly he realised that this beautiful, tired mother of his was needing help. She had not guessed what strength there was in her son’s arms until he drew her close to him. “What ails us, mother?” he asked, with surprising tenderness. “We’ve Windyhough, and powder and ball, and Lancashire may need us yet.” Hope took her unawares. This boy was transformed into a man of action; for only active men can glance from their own troubles to understand the weakness that is planted, like lavender, in the heart of every woman. “I would God it needed us,” she said, with a touch of her old petulance. “Lancashire men can sing leal songs enough----” “Can live them, too. The hills have cradled us.” Lady Royd smiled, as if her heart were playing round her lips. “You’re no fool, son of mine,” she said. “I wish the Retreat were sweeping straight to Windyhough, instead of leaving us in peace. I wish you could be proved.”