Ives were very comfortable: they
played a game of patience together (in which the former was a great
proficient), they chatted, they waxed confidential, and not till Dame
Martha summoned them to sup, did they perceive the lapse of time. Mr.
Ives called from the window, and the betrothed pair came in, their eyes
shining and dazzled by the bright light.
Matters went on happily thus for many days--it seemed that the course of
true love was to run very smooth--when one evening a little incident
occurred that startled all.
The little party of four were dining together, as they generally did.
Mr. Ives was in a merry mood: he poured out a glass of good red wine,
wine that was not often brought forth from the depth of his cellar; he
bade John Johnstone fill up his glass, and as each gentleman raised it
brimming to his lips, pledged "His sacred Majesty, good King George."
With a sharp rattle John Johnstone's glass crashed untasted on the
table, and the red wine splashed like blood on the white napery.
The parson looked at him, and the colour forsook his cheek.
Mistress Mary glanced tremulously from one to another, and half rose in
consternation.
The colour flushed high in Betty Ives' cheek. "Was this then the
mystery?"
The absent king held all her sympathies.
Mr. Ives moved back his chair from the table, and said somewhat
unsteadily:
"Good sir, I am a man of peace.
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