"Indeed I did," said Sir Thomas.

"Then go at once," cried Anne, imperiously, "and bid him stay."

"But it will be like eating my words, my child."

"Go eat them, then," cried the girl; "and quickly. Say that you were but jesting."

"And that you specially wished--"

"No, father. Are you mad? Say what thou wilt, and canst; but mind this--Sir Mark must stay."

Sir Thomas grumbled, but he had to go, and he went, and very easily persuaded Sir Mark to give up his project of leaving the Moat next day, and so it came about that about an hour later, when Mistress Anne was wandering, book in hand, in the pleasaunce, beneath the sun-pleached trees, where the soft turf was dappled with sunshine and shade, she accidentally came upon Sir Mark, moody and thoughtful, busy over his favourite occupation of trying to persuade one of the ancient carp in the moat to swallow a hook concealed in a lump of paste, a lure of which the said carp fought exceedingly shy.

If Sir Mark had been told a month before that he would become an angler--one of those patient beings who go and seat themselves on the banks of a piece of water and wait till a fish chooses to touch their bait--he would have laughed them to scorn.

All the same, though, he had gone to Sir Thomas Beckley's, very much shocked at the sudden termination of his matrimonial project, and had taken to his bed, where he stayed some days.

He told himself that he was heart-broken; that he would never look upon woman's face again; that he would pay a pilgrimage yearly to Mace's grave, and live and die a heart-broken anchorite.

On the sixth day he arose and wrote a despatch concerning the state of Jeremiah Cobbe's manufactures, retiring certain proposals that he had made concerning the supply of guns and powder to his Majesty's forces.

Later on he found that it would not be necessary to seize on Captain Carr, and later still followed the news that Gil had left those parts.

On the hearing of this he told himself that he could give full vent to his sorrow, which he did, taking at the same time a good deal of nutriment to counterbalance his sighs and tears.

Then, being a satisfactory moping pursuit for one so cut to the heart, he took to fishing week after week for the carp in the great moat; and after, on this particular day, trying in vain for one particularly heavy monster, he sighed very loudly--so loudly that it seemed to be echoed, and, looking sadly up, his eyes fell upon Mistress Anne, reading as she walked beneath the trees.

It was but a momentary glance, for she turned away directly after, and he sighed again, for he foresaw an interview with another lady as Dame Beckley came bustling to his side.

It was one way of showing his grief: A curious way of showing it; but every one has his peculiarities, and Sir Mark elected to dress himself more gorgeously than of old.

Sable had a prominent place in his costume, but it was largely relieved with gold lace and white linen, so that the angler who rose from his seat on the green bank of the old moat seemed, from the elegantly plumed hat to the shining rosetted shoes, more like one dressed for a ball or Court gathering than a man prepared to land the slippery carp or wriggling eel.

Dame Beckley was very nervous over her task, but she managed to acquit herself pretty well, and Sir Mark received her request that he should stay with a saddened smile that seemed to say all things were alike to him now.

"If my presence will give you pleasure, madam," he said with a sigh, "I will stay, though you will find me sorry company, I fear."

Sir Mark applied a delicate lace handkerchief to his eyes, and spread around a faint odour of musk, before applying a fresh lump of paste to his great hook, and casting it once more between the water-lilies.

"Plague on the man," said Dame Beckley to herself; "it is not a pleasure to me. I wish, though," she added musingly, "he would let me administer some of my simples. I could make him hearty and well."

Sir Mark sighed again when he was left alone, and began to pity himself for his sufferings. Somehow he did not feel much sorrow for the young life that had been so suddenly cut off. His sorrow was for him who was to have been a bridegroom, and who would have succeeded to a goodly property with his handsome wife. This was the more important to him, as his little patrimony had been pretty well squandered, and his tailor was an extensive creditor who was eager to be paid.

"Yes," he said, "I'll stay. Poor woman, she wishes it, and, until my brain recovers from this dreadful shock, I am as well here as anywhere.

Besides, I cannot well go back till I see my way to obtain some money."

Just then a great carp came slowly sailing along through the deep clear water, and rose amongst the stems of the water-lilies, as if to get a better glance with its big round eyes at the gorgeous object in black velvet, puffed with white satin and laced with gold, seated so patiently upon the bank.

"I begin to think now," said Sir Mark, as he gazed back at the carp, whose great round golden scales suggested coins, "that I have made a mistake. I might have had fair Mistress Anne."

The carp glanced down for a moment at the lump of paste, and shook its tail at it, its head being too rigid. The bait was not to its taste, so it rose higher and stared with its great round expressionless eyes, while it gasped with its big thick lips.

"Two hundred pounds for wedding garments of my own," he said, gazing back at the carp. "Twenty-five pounds for that new sword with the silver ornaments to the hilt, and five pounds for those white crane's plumes for my hat; and now they are useless. I cannot have them altered to wear now without spoiling them, and unless I marry soon that money is all thrown away."

He sighed again very softly, for he was exceedingly sorry for himself, as he thought of the founder's thousands.

"You are a lucky fellow," he continued, addressing the carp; "you always swim about clad in golden armour, and pay nothing for the show. True, I have not paid for mine, but I suppose that some day I shall be obliged."

Just then the carp smacked its lips as it thrust its nose above the water, gave its tail a lazy flap, and turned itself endwise so as to face Sir Mark, who gazed full at its fat gasping mouth, puffy eyes, and generally inane expression.

"What becomes of the old Beckleys?" said Sir Mark. "One might fancy that they all went to animate the bodies of the carp in this moat, for yon fish bears a wondrous resemblance to the baronet. I wonder whether he is as well clothed in golden scales. By all that's holy, here he is."

For, unnoticed on the soft velvety grass, Sir Thomas Beckley had come slowly up, looking in effect much more like the great carp than might have been considered possible, for his head was so charged with his daughter's mission that it seemed to force his mouth open, and his eyes from his head, while, as he came close up, he gasped two or three times, opening and shutting his lips without making a sound.

"Fishing, Sir Mark?" he said at last, for want of something better to say. "You have captured one, I suppose?"

"No, Sir Thomas," said his guest with a sigh. "Faith, an' I do not care to catch the poor things. I find in angling a change from dwelling on my sad thoughts. You never catch them, I suppose?"

"No," was the reply, "I never do. My father once caught one."

"Indeed!" said Sir Mark, yawning, for it was a peculiarity of Sir Thomas Beckley that he made everyone with whom he came into contact yawn.

"Yes," continued Sir Thomas. "It was during a very hot summer, and the moat was nearly dry. I remember it well."

"You seem to have an excellent recollection, Sir Thomas."

"I have, Sir Mark, I have," said the baronet pompously. "The great carp had somehow been left in a tiny pool whence he could not escape, so my father caught him."

"But not with a hook, Sir Thomas--he did not angle."

"Marry, sir, but he did. He'd have gone in after it but for the mud, which would have sullied his trunk hose and velvet breeches of murrey colour, so he had a kitchen meat hook tied to a long pole, and caught the big fish fairly."

"Indeed, Sir Thomas? It must have been an exciting scene."

"My father was a great man, Sir Mark."

"Great and rich, Sir Thomas?"

"Very, Sir Mark."

"Then I have been doing wrong," thought Sir Mark. "This old idiot here must have inherited all the old man's money, unless--. Did your brothers much resemble him, Sir Thomas?" he said aloud.

"Brothers, sir? I never had a brother. I was an only child."

"Indeed! But I might have known. Sir Thomas, this is a fitting time to thank you for your hospitality. I may not have another chance before I go."

"But you will not go yet, Sir Mark. I was about to press you to stay with us yet a while--till your health is more restored. You look pale and ill as yet, Sir Mark."

"Really, Sir Thomas? Thanks for your kindly concern, but I must go and try to recover elsewhere. Your good lady, Dame Beckley, has been trying to persuade me to stay, but I think my visit here has been too long already."