'Launcelot,' she continued, and her voice had music in it such as I
never heard in any kirk or quire, at matins or at laud,--'Launcelot, do
not think of me, I pray you--at least, not if you can help it--'
'Help it I cannot,' answered I; 'it is far beyond that!'
And so I thought at the time.
'But, Launcelot, my sweet squire,' she said again, 'hast thou already
forgotten thy vow? It is better for thee to be a squire of arms than a
squire of dames! At least,' she added, smiling, 'till you win your
spurs.'
'I will win them for your sake, an you will let me, Marjorie!' I cried.
'Win them, then, Launcelot,' she made me answer, suddenly breaking from
her reserve, 'win them for my sake--and see, meantime you shall wear my
colours.'
And she undid a brooch of gold whereon were the lilies of France, that
were the badge of her house, and setting it on the velvet collar of my
coat she gave a little dainty pat to the place where she put it.
'It sets you well,' she said, pushing my hair to one side to look at me;
'two such I have. Wear you one and I shall wear the other--for Marjorie
Kennedy and the honour of Culzean.'
It sounded like a sacred oath rather than the posy of a love-gift: '_For
Marjorie Kennedy and the honour of Culzean_!'
Then most humbly would I have lifted her fingers to my lips and kissed
them, not daring more; but she put her hand on my head, for she was tall
(though not as tall as I), and bent sweetly to me.
The blood of all my heart fled insurgent to my ears, deafening me, as I
also stooped toward her.
'No, not there,' she whispered, and kissed me gently on the brow.
'My laddie,' she said, 'be brave, true, noble, and one day you shall
know root and branch what the love of woman is.'
And waving me not to follow her, she went in with her head turned away
from my sight.
So there for a great space I stood in the dusk of the arbour, mazed and
bewildered by the strange, undreamed-of bliss--ennobled by the touch of
her lips, ay, more than if the King himself had laid his sword on my
shoulder in the way of accolade.
Then at last I moved and went in also, dragging tardy-foot away from the
sweet and memorable place.
At the garden gate I met Nell Kennedy, and made to pass without seeing
her. But she stood in the middle of the way.
'I know,' she said, pointing scornfully with her finger, 'Maidie has
been talking to you behind the hedge. She has given you the French
brooch she would not give me yesterday, though she has another.'
Then I walked silently past her, with as great dignity as I could
command, for that is ever the best way with forward children.