Sir Stephen looked after him musingly, and seemed to forget Howard's presence; then suddenly his face flushed and his eyes shone with a curious mixture of pride and tenderness and the indomitable resolution which had helped him to fight his "wild beast." He leant forward and touched Howard's knee.
"Don't you understand!" he said, earnestly, and in a low voice which the click of the billiard balls prevented Stafford from hearing. "It is for him! For my boy, Mr. Howard! It's for him that I have been working, am still working. For myself—I am satisfied—as he said; but not for him. I want to see him still higher up the ladder than I have climbed. I have done fairly well—heaven and earth! if anyone had told me twenty years ago that I should be where and what I am to-day—well, I'd have sold my chances for a bottle of ale. You smile. Mr. Howard, it was anything but beer and skittles for me then. I want to leave my boy a—title. Smile again, Mr. Howard; I don't mind."
"I haven't a smile about me, sir," said Howard.
"Ah, you understand. You see my mind. I don't know why I've told you, excepting that it is because you are Staff's friend. But I've told you now. And am I not right? Isn't it a laudable ambition? Can you say that he will not wear it well, however high the title may be? Where is there such another young fellow? Proud—pride is too poor a word for what I feel for him!"
He paused and sank back, but leant forward again.
"Though I've kept apart from him, Mr. Howard, I have watched him—but in no unworthy sense. No, I haven't spied upon him."
"There was no need, sir," said Howard, very quietly.
"I know it. Stafford is as straight as a dart, as true as steel. Oh,I've heard of him. I know there isn't a more popular man inEngland—forgive me if I say I don't think there's a handsomer."
Howard nodded prompt assent.
"I read of him, in society, at Hurlingham. Everywhere he goes he holds his own. And I know why. Do you believe in birth, Mr. Howard?" he asked, abruptly.
"Of course," replied Howard.
"So do I, though I can't lay claim to any. But there's a good strain in Stafford and it shows itself. There's something in his face, a certain look in his eyes, in his voice, and the way he moves; that quiet yet frank manner—oh, I can't explain!" he broke off, impatiently.
"I think you have done it very well," said Howard. "I don't like the word—it is so often misapplied—but I can't think of any better: distinguished is the word that describes Stafford."
Sir Stephen nodded eagerly.
"You are right. Some men are made, born to wear the purple. My boy is one of them—and he shall! He shall take his place amongst the noblest and the best in the land. He shall marry with the highest. Nature has cast him in a noble mould, and he shall step into his proper place."
He drew a long breath, and his brilliant eyes flashed as if he were looking into the future, looking into the hour of triumph.
"Yes; I agree with you," said Howard; "but I am afraid Stafford will scarcely share your ambition."
He was sorry he had spoken as he saw the change which his words had caused in Sir Stephen.
"What?" he said, almost fiercely. "Why do you say that? Why should he not be ambitious?" He stopped and laid his hand on Howard's shoulder, gripping it tightly, and his voice sank to a stern whisper. "You don't know of anything—there is no woman—no entanglement?"
"No, no!" said Howard. "Make your mind easy on that point. There is no one. Stafford is singularly free in that respect. In fact—well, he is rather cold. There is no one, I am sure. I should have known it, if there had been."
Sir Stephen's grip relaxed, and the stern, almost savage expression was smoothed out by a smile.
"Right," he said, still in a whisper. "Then there is no obstacle in my way. I shall win what I am fighting for. Though it will not be an easy fight. No, sir. But easy or difficult, I mean winning."
He rose and stood erect—a striking figure looking over Howard's head with an abstracted gaze; then suddenly his eyelids quivered, his face grew deathly pale, and his hand went to his heart.
Howard sprang to his feet with an exclamation of alarm; but Sir Stephen held up his hand warningly, moved slowly to one of the tables, poured out a glass ofliqueurand drank it. Then he turned to Howard, who stood watching him, uncertain what to do or say, and said, with an air of command:
"Not a word. It is nothing."
Then he linked his arm in Howard's and led him into the billiard-room.
"Table all right, Stafford?"
"First-rate, sir," replied Stafford. "You and Mr. Howard play a hundred."
"No, no," said Sir Stephen. "You and Howard. I should enjoy looking on."
"We'll have a pool," said Stafford, taking the balls from the cabinet. Howard watched Sir Stephen as he played his first shot: his hand was perfectly steady, and he soon showed that he was a first-rate player.
"That was a good shot," said Stafford, with a touch of pride in his voice. "I don't know that I've seen a better. You play a good game, sir."
Sir Stephen's face flushed at his son's praise, as a girl's might have done; but he laughed it off.
"Only so, so, Staff. I don't play half as good a game as you and Mr. Howard. How should I?—Mr. Howard, there is the spirit-stand. You'll help yourself? Servants are a nuisance in a billiard-room."
Not once for the rest of the evening did he show any sign of the weakness which had so startled Howard, and as they went up the stairs he told them a story with admirable verve and with evident enjoyment.
"Sorry our evening has come to an end," he said as they stood outside his door. "It is the last we shall have to ourselves. Pity. But it can't be helped."
Unconsciously he opened the door as he spoke, and Stafford said:
"Is this your room, sir?"
"Yes; walk in, my boy," replied Sir Stephen.
Stafford walked in and stood stock-still with amazement. The room was as plainly furnished as a servant's—more plainly, probably, than the servants who were housed under his roof. Saving for a square of carpet by the bed and dressing-table the floor was bare; the bed was a common one of iron, narrow and without drapery, the furniture was of painted deal. The only picture was a portrait of Stafford enlarged from a photograph, and it hung over the mantel-piece so that Sir Stephen could see it from the bed. Of course neither Stafford nor Howard made any remark.
"Remember that portrait, Stafford?" asked Sir Stephen, with a smile. "I carry it about with me wherever I go. Foolish and fond old father, eh, Mr. Howard? It's a good portrait, don't you think?"
Stafford held out his hand.
"Good-night, sir," he said in a very low voice.
"Good-night, my boy! Sure you've got everything you want? And you, Mr. Howard? Don't let me disturb you in the morning. I've got a stupid habit of getting up early—got it years ago, and it clings, like other habits. Hope you'll sleep well. If you don't, change your rooms before the crowd comes. Good-night."
"Did you see the room?" asked Stafford, huskily, when he and Howard had got into Stafford's.
Howard nodded.
"I feel as if I could pitch all this"—Stafford looked at the surrounding luxuries—"out of the window! I don't understand him. Great Heaven! he makes me feel the most selfish, pampered wretch on the face of the earth. He's—he's—"
"He is a man!" said Howard, with an earnestness which was strange in him.
"You are right," said Stafford. "There never was such a father. And yet—yet—I don't understand him. He is such a mixture. How such a man could talk as he did—no I don't understand it."
"I do," said Howard.
But then Sir Stephen had given him the key to the enigma.
Stafford slept well, and was awake before Measom came to call him. It was a warm and lovely morning, and Stafford's first thoughts flew to a bath. He got into flannels, and found his way to the lake, and as he expected, there was an elaborate and picturesque bathing-shed beside the Swiss-looking boat-house, in which were an electric launch and boats of all descriptions. There also was a boatman in attendance, with huge towels on his arm.
"Did you expect me?" asked Stafford, as the man touched his hat and opened the bathing-shed.
"Yes, sir; Sir Stephen sent down last night to say that you might come down."
Stafford nodded. His father forgot nothing! The boatman rowed him out into the lake and Stafford had a delightful swim. It reminded him of Geneva, for the lake this morning was almost as clear and as vivid in colouring: and that is saying a great deal.
The boatman, who watched his young master admiringly—for Stafford was like a fish in the water—informed him that the launch would be ready in a moment's notice, or the sailing boat either, for the matter of that, if he should require them.
"I've another launch, a steamer, and larger than this, coming to-morrow; and Sir Stephen told me to get some Canadian canoes, in case you or any of the company that's coming should fancy them, sir."
As Stafford went up to the house in the exquisite "after-bath" frame of mind, he met his father. The expression of Sir Stephen's face, which a moment earlier, before he had turned the corner of the winding path, had been grave and keen, and somewhat hard, softened, and his eyes lit up with a smile which had no little of the boatman's admiration in it.
"Had a swim, my boy? Found everything right, I hope? I was just going down to see."
"Yes, everything," replied Stafford. "I can't think how you have managed to get it done in so short a time," he added, looking round at the well-grown shrubs, the smooth paths and the plush-like lawns, which all looked as if they had been in cultivation for years.
Sir Stephen shrugged his shoulders.
"It is all a question of money—and the right men," he said. "I always work on the plan, and ask the questions: 'How soon, how much?' Then I add ten per cent. to the contract price on condition that the time is kept. I find 'time' penalties are no use: it breaks the contractor's back; but the extra ten per cent. makes them hustle, as they say on the 'other side.' Have you seen the stables yet? But of course you haven't, or I should have seen you there. I go down there every morning; not because I understand much about horses, but because I'm fond of them. That will be your department, my dear Stafford."
At each turn of their way Stafford found something to admire, and his wonderment at the settled and established "Oh, I stipulated that there shouldn't be any newness—any 'smell of paint,' so to speak. Here are the stables; I had them put as far from the house as possible, and yet get-at-able. Most men like to stroll about them. I hope you'll like them. Mr. Pawson, the trainer, designed them."
Stafford nodded with warm approval.
"They seem perfect," he said as, after surveying the exterior, he entered and looked down the long reach of stalls and loose boxes, many of which were occupied, as he saw at a glance, by valuable animals. "They are a fine lot, sir," he said, gravely, as he went down the long line. "A remarkably fine lot! I have never seen a better show. This fellow—why, isn't he Lord Winstay's bay, Adonis?"
"Yes," said Sir Stephen. "I thought you'd like him."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Stafford. "You don't mean that you have bought him for me, sir! I know that Winstay refused eight hundred guineas for him."
"I daresay," replied Sir Stephen. "Why shouldn't I buy him for you, my boy? There's another one in the box next that one; a little stiffer. I'm told he's up to your weight and—"
Stafford went into the box and looked at the horse. It was a magnificent, light-weight hunter—the kind of horse that makes a riding-man's heart jump.
"I should say that there are not two better horses of their sort in the county," Stafford said, solemnly, and with a flush of his handsome face.
Sir Stephen's eyes gleamed.
"That's all right: they can't be too good, Stafford."
The head groom, Davis by name, stood, with Pottinger and some underlings, at a little distance in attendance, and the men exchanged glances and nods.
"Have you seen these, Pottinger?" asked Stafford, turning to him, and speaking in the tone which servants love.
Pottinger touched his forehead.
"Yes, sir; they're first rate, and no mistake. I've just been tellingMr. Davis he's got a splendid lot, sir—splendid!"
"Not but what your own pair 'ud be hard to beat, sir," said Davis, respectfully. "There's a mare here, Sir Stephen, I should like to show Mr. Stafford."
The mare was taken out into the yard, and Stafford examined her and praised her with a judgment and enthusiasm which filled Davis's heart with pride.
"Your young guv'nor's the right sort, Pottinger," he remarked as Stafford at last reluctantly tore himself away from the stables. "Give me a master as understands a horse and I don't mind working for him."
Pottinger nodded and turned the straw in his mouth.
"If you're alludin' to Mr. Stafford, then you'll enjoy your work, Mr. Davis; for you've got what you want. What my guv'nor don't know about a 'oss isn't worth knowing."
"So I should say," assented Davis, emphatically. "I do hate to have a juggins about the place. Barker,isthat a spot o' rust on that pillar-chain, or is my eyesight deceiving me? No, my men, if there's the slightest thing askew when Mr. Stafford walks round, I shall break my heart—and sack the man who's responsible for it. Pottinger, if you'd like that pair o' yours moved, if you think they ain't comfortable, you say so, and moved they shall be."
As Sir Stephen and Stafford strolled back to the house the former paused now and again to point out something he wished Stafford to see, always appealing for his approval.
"Everything is perfect, sir," Stafford said at last. "And, above all, the situation," he added as he looked at the magnificent view, the opal lake mirroring the distant mountains, flecked by the sunlight and the drifting clouds.
"Yes, I was fortunate in getting it," remarked Sir Stephen.
Instantly there flashed across Stafford's mind—and not for the first time that morning—the words Ida Heron had spoken respecting the way in which Sir Stephen had obtained the land. Looking straight before him, he asked:
"How did you get it, sir? I have heard that it was difficult to buy land here for building purposes."
"Yes, I fancy it is," replied Sir Stephen, quite easily. "Now you speak of it, I remember my agent said there was some hitch at first; but he must have got over it in some way or other. He bought it of a farmer." Stafford drew a breath of relief. "This is the Italian garden; the tennis and croquet lawns are below this terrace—there's not time to go down. But you haven't seen half of it yet. There's the breakfast-bell. Don't trouble to change: I like you in those flannels." He laid his hand on Stafford's broad, straight shoulder. "You have the knack of wearing your clothes as if they grew on you, Staff."
Stafford laughed.
"I ought to hand that compliment on to Measom, sir," he said; "he's the responsible person and deserves the credit, if there is any." He looked at his father's upright, well-dressed and graceful figure. "But he would hand it back to you, I think, sir."
There was a pause, then Stafford said:
"Do you know any of your neighbours—any of the people round about?"
"No; I was never here until yesterday, excepting for an hour or two. But we shall know them, I suppose; they'll call in a little while, and we will ask them to dinner, and so on. There should be some nice people—Ah, Mr. Howard, we've stolen a march on you!"
"I'm not surprised, sir," said Howard, as he came up in his slow and languid way. "I am sorry to say that Stafford has an extremely bad habit of getting up at unreasonable hours. I wait until I am dragged out of bed by a fellow-creature or the pangs of hunger. Of course you have been bathing, Staff? Early rising and an inordinate love of cold water—externally—at all seasons are two of his ineradicable vices, Sir Stephen. I have done my best to cure them, but—alas!"
They went in to breakfast, which was served in a room with bay windows opening on to the terrace overlooking the lake. Exactly opposite Stafford's chair was the little opening on the other side from which he and the girl from Heron Hall had gazed at the villa. He looked at it and grew silent.
A large dispatch-box stood beside Sir Stephen's plate. He did not open it, but sent it to his room.
"I never read my letters before breakfast," he remarked. "They spoil one's digestion. I'm afraid the mail's heavy this morning, judging by the weight of the box; so that I shall be busy. You two gentlemen will, I trust, amuse yourselves in your own way. Mr. Howard, the groom will await your orders."
"Thanks," said Howard; "but I propose to sit quite still on a chair which I have carried out on to the terrace. I have had enough of driving to last me for a week;" and he shuddered.
Stafford laughed.
"Howard's easily disposed of, sir," he said. "Give him a hammock or an easy-chair in the shade, and he can always amuse himself by going to sleep."
"True; and if half the men I know spent their time in a similar fashion this would be a brighter and a better world. What you will do, my dear Stafford, I know by bitter experience. He will go and wade through a river or ride at a break-neck pace down some of those hills. Stafford is never happy unless he is trying to lay up rheumatism for his old age or endeavouring to break his limbs."
Sir Stephen looked across the table at the stalwart, graceful frame; but he said nothing: there was no need, for his eyes were eloquent of love and admiration.
Stafford changed into riding things soon after breakfast, went down to the stables and had Adonis saddled. Davis superintended the operation and the stablemen edged round to watch. Davis expressed his approval as Stafford mounted and went off on a splendid creature, remarking as he started:
"Beautiful mouth, Davis!"
"Yes, Pottinger," said Davis, succinctly, "he's worthy of him. That's what I call 'hands' now. Dash my aunt if you'd find it easy to match the pair of 'em! There's a class about both that you don't often see. If you'll step inside my little place, Mr. Pottinger, we'll drink your guv'nor's health. I like his shape, I like his style; and I'm counted a bit of a judge. He's a gentleman, and a high-bred 'n at that."
Stafford rode down the winding drive at which the gardeners were at work on borders and shrubberies, and on to the road. The air was like champagne. The slight breeze just ruffled the lake on which the sun was glittering; Stafford was conscious of a strange feeling of eagerness, of quickly thrilling vitality which was new to him. He put it down to the glorious morning, to the discovery of the affection of his father, to the good horse that stepped as lightly as an Arab, and carried him as if he were a feather; and yet all the while he knew that these did not altogether account for the electric eagerness, the "joy of living" which possessed him.
He pulled up for a moment at The Woodman Inn to thank Mr. Groves for the port, and that gentleman came out, as glad to see him as if he were an old friend.
"Don't mention it, sir," he said. "I thought a long time before I sent it, because I wasn't sure that Sir Stephen and you might think it a liberty; but I needn't have done so, I know now. And it was kind of Sir Stephen to send me a note with the sherry. It was like a gentleman, if you'll excuse me saying so, sir."
Stafford rode over the hill and along the road by the stream, and as he rode he looked round him eagerly and keenly. In fact, as if he were scouting. But that for which he was looking so intently did not appear; his spirits fell—though the sun was still shining—and he sighed impatiently, and putting Adonis through the stream, cantered over the moor at the foot of the hills. Suddenly he heard the bark of a dog, and looking eagerly in the direction of the sound, he saw Ida Heron walking quickly round the hill, with Donald and Bess scampering in front of her.
The gloom vanished from Stafford's face, and he checked Adonis into a walk. The dogs were the first to see him, and they tore towards him barking a welcome. Ida looked up—she had been walking with her eyes bent on the ground—the colour rose to her face, and she stopped for an instant. Then she came on slowly, and by the time they had met there was no trace of the transitory blush.
Stafford raised his hat and dismounted, and tried to speak in a casual tone; but it was difficult to conceal the subtle delight which sprang up within him at the sight of her; and he looked at the beautiful face and the slim, graceful figure in its tailor-made gown—which, well worn as it was, seemed to him to sit upon her as no other dress had ever sat upon any other woman—he had hard work to keep the admiration from his eyes.
"I begin to count myself a very lucky man, Miss Heron," he said.
"Why?" she asked, her grave eyes resting on him calmly.
"Because I have chanced to meet you again."
"It is not strange," she said. "I am nearly always out-of-doors. What a beautiful horse!"
"Isn't it!" he said, grateful for her praise. "It is a new one—a present from my father this morning."
"A very valuable present! It ought to be able to jump."
"It is. I put it at a bank just now, and it cleared it like a bird. I am very glad I have met you. I wanted to tell you something."
She raised her eyes from the horse and waited, with the quietude, the self-possession and dignity which seemed so strange in one so young, and which, by its strangeness, fascinated him. "I—spoke to my father about the land: he is innocent in the matter. It was bought through his agent, and my father knows nothing of anything—underhand. I can't tell you how glad I am that this is so. So glad that—I'll make a clean breast of it—I rode over this morning in the hope of meeting you and telling you."
She made a little gesture of acceptance.
"I am glad, too. Though it does not matter…."
"Ah, but it does!" he broke in. "I should have been wretched if you had been right, and my father had been guilty of anything of the kind. But, as a matter of fact, he isn't capable of it—as you'd say if you knew him. Now, there's no reason why we shouldn't be friends, is there?" he added, with a suppressed eagerness.
"Oh, no," she responded. She glanced up at the sky. Unnoticed by him a cloud had drifted over the Langdale pikes, as the range of high mountain is called. "It is going to rain, and heavily."
"And you have no umbrella, waterproof!" exclaimed Stafford.
She laughed with girlish amusement.
"Umbrella? I don't think I have such a thing; and this cloth is nearly waterproof; besides, I never notice the rain—here it comes!"
It came with a vengeance; it was as if the heavens had opened and let down the bottom of a reservoir.
Stafford mechanically took off his coat.
"Put this on," he said. "That jacket is quite light; you'll get wet through."
Her face crimsoned, and she laughed a little constrainedly.
"Please put your coat on!" she said, gravely and earnestly. "Youwill be wet through, and you are not used to it. There is a shed round the corner; ride there as quickly as you can."
Stafford stared at her, then burst into a laugh which echoed hers.
"And leave you here! Is it likely?"
"Well, let us both go," she said, as if amused by his obstinacy.
"Is it far?" he asked. "See if you can manage to balance on the saddle—I would run beside you. It's all very well to talk of not minding the rain, but this is a deluge."
She glanced at the horse.
"I couldn't get up—I could if he were barebacked, or if it were a lady's saddle—it doesn't matter. Look, Donald and Bess are laughing at you for making a fuss about a shower."
"Will you try—let me help you?" he pleaded. "I could lift you quite easily—Oh, forgive me, but I'm not used to standing by and seeing a girl get soaked."
"You are walking—not standing," she reminded him, solemnly.
Perhaps her smile gave him courage: he took her just below the shoulders and lifted her on to the saddle, saying as he did so, and in as matter-of-fact a voice as he could:
"If you'll just put your hand on my shoulder, you'll find that you can ride quite safely—though I expect you could do it without that—I've seen you ride, you know."
He kept his eyes from her, so that he did not see the hot blush which mantled in the clear ivory of her face, or the sudden tightening of the lips, as if she were struggling against some feeling, and fighting for her usual self-possession.
She succeeded in a moment or two, and when he looked up the blush had gone and something like amusement was sharing the sweet girlish confusion in her grey eyes.
"This is absurd!" she said. "It is to be hoped Jason or none of the men will see me; they would think I had gone mad; and I should never hear the last of it. The shed is by that tree."
"I see it—just across the road. Please keep a tight hold of my shoulder; I should never forgive myself if you slipped."
"I am not in the least likely to slip," she said.
Then suddenly, just as they were on the edge of the road, she uttered an exclamation of surprise rather than embarrassment, for a carriage and pair came round the corner and almost upon them.
Stafford stopped Adonis to let the carriage pass, but the coachman pulled up in response to a signal from someone inside, and a man thrust his head out of the window and regarded them at first with surprise and then with keen scrutiny.
He was an elderly man, with a face which would have been coarse but for its expression of acuteness and a certain strength which revealed itself in the heavy features.
"Can you tell me the way to Sir Stephen Orme's place?" he asked in a rough, harsh voice.
Ida was about to slip down, but she reflected that the mischief, if there were any, was done now; and to Stafford's admiration, she sat quite still under the gaze of the man's keen, sarcastic eyes.
"Yes; keep straight on and round by The Woodman: you will see the house by that time," said Stafford.
"Thanks! Drive on, coachman," said the man; and he drew in his head with a grim smile, and something like a sneer on his thick lips that made Stafford's eyes flash.
Stafford and Ida remained, unconscious of the rain, looking after the carriage for a moment or two.
The sneer on the man's heavy yet acutely sharp face, still incensed Stafford. He had the usual desire of the strong man—to dash after the rapidly disappearing vehicle, lug the fellow out and ask him what he was sneering at.
Ida was the first to speak.
"What a strange-looking man," she said.
Stafford started slightly, awaking to the fact that it was still pouring.
"I—I beg your pardon. I'm keeping you out in the rain."
He put Adonis, not at all unwillingly, to a trot, and they gained the rough cattle-shed, and he would have lifted the girl down, but she was too quick for him, and slipped gracefully and easily from the saddle.
Stafford, leading the horse, followed her into the shed. Bess sat on the extreme end of her haunches shivering and blinking, and all too plainly cursing the British climate; but Donald threw himself down outside as if he regarded the deluge as a cheap shower-bath.
Stafford looked at Ida anxiously.
"You are fearfully wet," he said. "I think I could wipe off the worst of it, if you'll let me."
He took out his pocket handkerchief as he spoke and wiped the rain from her straight, beautifully moulded shoulders. She drew back a little and opened her lips to protest at first, but with a slight shrug she resigned herself, her eyes downcast, a faint colour in her face.
"I must be quite dry now," she said at last.
"I'm afraid not," said Stafford. "I wish I had something bigger—a towel."
She laughed, the sweet girlish laugh which seemed to him the most musical sound he had ever heard.
"A towel? Fancying carrying a towel to wipe oneself with when it rained! It is evident you don't know our country. There are weeks sometimes in which it never ceases to rain. And you must be wet through yourself," she added, glancing at him.
He was on his knees at the moment carefully wiping the old habit skirt with his saturated handkerchief as if the former were something precious; and her woman's eye noted his short crisp hair, the shapely head and the straight broad back.
"I'm afraid that's all I can do!" he said, regretfully, as he rose and looked at her gravely. "Do you mean to say that you habitually ride out in such weather as this?"
"Why, yes!" she replied, lightly. "Why not? I am too substantial to melt, and I never catch cold. Besides, I have to go out in all weathers to see to the cattle and the sheep."
He leant against one of the posts which supported the shed, and gazed at her with more intense interest than any other woman had ever aroused in him.
"Isn't there a foreman, a bailiff, whatever you call him, in these parts?"
She shook her head.
"No; we cannot afford one; so I do his work. And very pleasant work it is, especially in fine weather."
"And you are happy?" he asked, almost unconsciously.
Her frank eyes met his with a smile of amusement.
"Yes, quite happy," she answered. "Why? Does it seem so unlikely, so unreasonable?"
"Well, it does," he replied, as if her frankness were contagious. "Of course, I could understand it if you did it occasionally, if you did it because you liked riding; but to be obliged, to have to go out in all weathers, it isn't right!"
She looked at him thoughtfully.
"Yes, I suppose it seems strange to you. I suppose most of the ladies you know are rich, and only ride to amuse themselves, and never go out when they do not want to do so. Sir Stephen Orme—you—are very rich, are you not? We, my father and I, are poor, very poor. And if I did not look after things, if I were not my own bailiff—Oh, well, I don't know what would happen."
Stafford gnawed at his moustache as he gazed at her. The exquisitely colourless face, in which the violet eyes glowed like two twin flowers, the delicately cut lips, soft and red, the dark hair clustering at the ivory temples in wet rings, set his heart beating with a heavy pulsation that was an agony of admiration and longing—a longing that was vague and indistinct.
"Yes, I suppose it must seem strange to you," she said, as if she were following out the lines of her own thoughts. "You must be accustomed to girls who are so different."
"Yes, they're different," he admitted. "Most of the women I know would be frightened to death if they were caught in such a rain as this; would be more than frightened to death if they had to ride down that hill most of 'em think they've done wonder if they get in at the end of a run over a fairly easy country; and none of 'em could doctor a sick sheep to save their lives."
"Yes," she said, dreamily. "I've seen them, but only at a distance. ButI didn't know anything about farming until I came home."
"And do you never go away from here, go to London for a change and get a dance, and—and all that?" he asked.
She shook her head indifferently.
"No, I never leave the dale. I cannot. My father could not spare me.Has it left off raining yet?"
She went to the front of the shed and looked out.
"No, it is still pelting; please come back; it is pouring off the roof; your hair is quite wet again."
She laughed, but she obeyed.
"I suppose that gentleman, the man in the carriage, was a friend of SirStephen's, as he asked the way to your house?"
"I don't know," replied Stafford. "I don't know any of my father's friends. I knew very little of him until last night."
She looked at him with frank, girlish interest.
"Did you find the new house very beautiful?" she asked.
Stafford nodded.
"Yes," he said, absently. "It is a kind of—of palace. It's beautiful enough—perhaps a little too—too rich," he admitted.
She smiled.
"But then, you are rich. And is it true that a number of visitors are coming down? I heard it from Jessie."
"Who is Jessie?" he asked, for he was more interested in the smallest detail of this strange, bewilderingly lovely girl's life than his father's affairs.
"Jessie is my maid. I call her mine, because she is very much attached to me; but she is really our house-maid, parlour-maid. We have very few servants: I suppose you have a great many up at the new house?"
He nodded.
"Oh, yes," he said, half apologetically. "Too many by far. I wish you could, see it," he added.
She laughed softly.
"Thank you; but that is not likely. I think it is not raining so hard now, and that I can go."
"It is simply pouring still," he said, earnestly and emphatically. "You would get drenched if you ventured out."
"But I can't stay here all day," she remarked, with a laugh. "I have a great deal to do: I have to see that the sheep have not strayed, and that the cows are in the meadows; the fences are bad in places, and the stupid creatures are always straying. It is wonderful how quickly a cow finds a weak place in a fence."
Stafford's face grew red, a brick-dust red.
"It's not fit work for you," he said. "You—you are only a girl; you can't be strong enough to face such weather, to do such work."
The beautiful eyes grew wide and gazed at him with girlish amusement, and something of indignation.
"I'm older than you think. I'm not a girl!" she retorted. "And I am as strong as a horse." She drew herself up and threw her head back. "I am never tired—or scarcely ever. One day I rode to Keswick and back, and when I got home Jason met me at the gate and told me that the steers had 'broken' and had got on the Bryndermere road. I started after them, but missed them for a time, and only came up with them at Landal Water—ah, you don't know where that is; well, it is a great many miles. Of course I had a rest coming back, as I could only drive them slowly."
Something in his eyes—the pity, the indignation, the wonder that this exquisitely refined specimen of maidenhood should be bent to such base uses—shone in them and stopped her. The colour rose to her face and her eyes grew faintly troubled, then a proud light flashed in them.
"Ah, I see; you are thinking that it is—is not ladylike, that none of your lady-friends would do it if even if they were strong enough?"
Stafford would have scorned himself if he had been tempted to evade those beautiful eyes, that sweet, and now rather haughty voice; besides, he was not given to evasion with man or woman.
"I wasn't thinking quite that," he said. "But I'll tell you what I was thinking, if you'll promise not to be offended."
She considered for a moment, then she said:
"I do not think you will offend me. What was it?"
"Well, I was thinking that—see here, now, Miss Heron, I've got your promise!—it is not worthy of you—such work, I mean."
"Because I'm a girl?" she said, her lip curving with a smile.
"No," he said, gravely; "because you are a lady; because you are so—so refined, so graceful, so"—he dared not say "beautiful," and consequently he floundered and broke down. "If you were a farmer's daughter, clumsy and rough and awkward, it would not seem to inappropriate for you to be herding cattle and counting sheep; but—now your promise!—when I come to think that ever since I met you, whenever I think of you I think of—of—a beautiful flower—that now I have seen you in evening-dress, I realise how wrong it is that you should do such work. Oh, dash it! I know it's like my cheek to talk to you like this," he wound up, abruptly and desperately.
While he had been speaking, the effect of his words had expressed itself in her eyes and in the alternating colour and pallor of her face. It was the first time in her life any man had told her that she was refined and graceful and flower-like; that she was, so to speak, wasting her sweetness on the desert air, and the speech was both pleasant and painful to her. The long dark lashes swept her cheek; her lips set tightly to repress the quiver which threatened them; but when he had completely broken down, she raised her eyes to his with a look so grave, so sweet, so girlish, that Stafford's heart leapt, not for the first time that morning, and there flashed through him the unexpected thought:
"What would not a man give to have those eyes turned upon him with love shining in their depths!"
"I'm not offended," she said. "I know what you mean. None of your lady-friends would do it because they are ladies. I'm sorry. But they are not placed as I am. Do you think I could sit with my hands before me, or do fancy-work, while things went to ruin? My father is old and feeble—you saw him the other night—I have no brother—no one to help me, and—so you see how it is!"
The eyes rested on his with a proud smile, as if she were challenging him, then she went on:
"And it does not matter. I live quite alone; I see no one, no other lady; there is no one to be ashamed of me."
Stafford reddened.
"That's rather a hard hit for me!" he said. "Ashamed! By Heaven! if you knew how I admired—how amazed I am at your pluck and goodness—"
Her eyes dropped before his glowing ones.
"And there is no need to pity me: I am quite happy, quite; happier than I should be if I were playing the piano or paying visits all day. It has quite left off now."
Half unconsciously he put his hand on her arm pleadingly, and with the firm, masterful touch of the man.
"Will you wait one more moment?" he said, in his deep, musical voice. She paused and looked at him enquiringly. "You said just now that you had no brother, no one to help you. Will you let me help you? will you let me stand in the place of a friend, of a brother?"
She looked at him with frank surprise; and most men would have been embarrassed and confused by the steady, astonished regard of the violet eyes; but Stafford was too eager to get her consent to care for the amusement that was mixed with the expression of surprise.
"Why—how could you help me?" she said at last; "even if—"
—"You'd let me," he finished for her. "Well, I'm not particularly clever, but I've got sense enough to count sheep and drive cows; and I can break in colts, train dogs, and, if I'm obliged, I daresay I could drive a plough."
Her eyes wandered thoughtfully, abstractedly down the dale; but she was listening and thinking.
"Of course I should have a lot to learn, but I'm rather quick at picking up things, and—"
"Are you joking, Mr. Orme?" she broke in.
"Joking? I was never more serious in my life," he said, eagerly, and yet with an attempt to conceal his earnestness. "I am asking it as a favour, I am indeed! I shall be here for weeks, months, perhaps, and I should be bored to death—"
"With your father's house full of visitors?" she put in, softly, and with a smile breaking through her gravity.
"Oh, they'll amuse themselves," he said. "At any rate, I sha'n't be with them all day; and I'd ever so much rather help you than dance attendance on them."
She pushed the short silky curls from her temples, and shook her head.
"Of course it's ridiculous," she said, with a girlish laugh; "and it's impossible, too."
"Oh, is it?" he retorted. "I've never yet found anything I wanted to do impossible."
"You always have your own way?" she asked.
"By hook or by crook," he replied.
"But why do you want to—help me?" she asked. "Do you think you would find it amusing? You wouldn't." The laughter shone in her eyes again. "You would soon grow tired of it. It is not like hunting or fishing or golfing; it's work that tries the temper—I never knew what a fiendish temper I had got about me until the first time I had to drive a cow and calf."
"My temper couldn't be worse," he remarked, calmly. "Howard says that sometimes I could give points to the man possessed with seven devils."
"Who is Mr. Howard?" she asked.
"My own particular chum," he said. "He came down with me and is up at the house now. But never mind Howard; are you going to let me help you as if I were an old friend or a—brother? Or are you going to be unkind enough to refuse?"
She began to feel driven, and her brows knit as she said:
"I think you are very—obstinate, Mr. Orme."
"That describes me exactly," he said, cheerfully. "I'm a perfect mule when I like, and I'm liking it all I know at this moment."
"It's absurd—it's ridiculous, as I said," she murmured, half angrily, half laughingly, "and I can't think why you offered, why you want to—to help me!"
"Never mind!" said Stafford, his heart beating with anticipatory triumph; for he knew that the woman who hesitates is gained. "Perhaps I want to get some lessons in farming on the cheap, or—"
—"Perhaps you really want to help the poor girl who, though she is a lady, has to do the work of a farmer's daughter," she said, in a low voice. "Oh, it is very kind of you, but—"
"Then I'll come over to-morrow an hour earlier than this, and you shall show me how to count the sheep, or whatever you do with them," he put in, quickly.
"But I was going to refuse—very gratefully, of course—but to refuse!"
"You couldn't; you couldn't be so unkind! I'll ride a hunter I've got; he's rather stiffer than Adonis, and better up to rough work. I will come to the stream where we first met and wait for you—shall I?"
He said all this as if the matter were settled; and with the sensation of being driven still more strongly upon her, she raised her eyes to his with a yielding expression in them, with that touch of imploration which lurks in a woman's eyes and about the corners of her lips when for the first time she surrenders her will to a man.
"I do not know what to say. It is absurd—it is—wrong. I don't understand why—. Ah, well," she sighed with an air of relief, "you will tire of it very quickly—after a few hours—"
"All right. We'll leave it at that," he said, with an exasperating air of cheerful confidence. "It is a bargain, Miss Heron. Shall we shake hands on it?"
He held out his hand with the smile which few men, and still fewer women, could resist; and she tried to smile in response; but as his strong hand closed over her small one, a faint look of doubt, almost of trouble, was palpable in her violet eyes and on her lips. She drew her hand away—and it had to be drawn, for he released it only slowly and reluctantly—and without a word she left the shed.
Stafford watched her as she went lightly and quickly up the road towards the Hall, Bess and Donald leaping round her; then, with a sharp feeling of elation, a feeling that was as novel as it was confusing, he sprang on his horse, and putting him to a gallop, rode for home, with one thought standing clearly out: that before many hours—the next morning—he should see her again.
Once he shifted his whip to his left hand, and stretching out his right hand, looked at it curiously: it seemed to be still thrilling with the contact of her small, warm palm.
As he came up to The Woodman Inn he remembered, what he had forgotten in the morning, that he had left his cigar-case on the dining-room mantel-shelf. He pulled up, and giving Adonis to the hostler, who rushed forward promptly, he went into the inn. There was no one in the hall, and knowing that he should be late for luncheon, he opened the dining-room door and walked in, and straight up to the fireplace.
The cigar-case was where he had left it, and he turned to go out. Then he saw that he was not the only occupant of the room, for a lady was sitting in the broad bay-window. He snatched off his cap and murmured an apology.
"I beg your pardon! I did not know anyone was in the room," he said.
The lady was young and handsome, with a beauty which owed a great deal to colour. Her hair was a rich auburn, her complexion of the delicate purity which sometimes goes with that coloured hair—"milk and roses," it used to be called. Her eyes were of china blue, and her lips rather full, but of the richest carmine. She was exquisitely dressed, her travelling costume evidently of Redfern's build, and one hand, from which she had removed the glove, was loaded with costly rings; diamonds and emeralds as large as nuts, and of the first water.
But it was not her undeniable beauty, or her dress and costly jewellery, which impressed Stafford so much as the proud, scornfully listless air with which she regarded him as she leant back indolently—and a little insolently—tapping the edge of the table with her glove.
"Pray don't apologise," she said, languidly. "This is a public room, I suppose!"
"Yes, I think so," said Stafford, in his pleasant, frank way; "but one doesn't rush into a public room with one's hat on if he has reason to suppose that a lady is present. I thought there was no one here—the curtain concealed you: I am sorry."
She shrugged her shoulders and gave him the faintest and most condescending of bows; then, as he reached the door, she said:
"Do you think it will be moonlight to-night?"
Stafford naturally looked rather surprised at this point-blank meteorological question.
"I shouldn't be surprised if it were," he said. "You see, this is a very changeable climate, and as it is raining now it will probably clear up before the evening."
"Thanks!" she said. "I am much obliged—"
"Oh, my opinion isn't worth much," he put in parenthetically, but she went on as if he had not spoken.
—"I should be still further obliged if you would be so kind as to tell my father—he is outside with the carriage somewhere—that I am tired and that I would rather not go on until the cool of the evening."
"Certainly," said Stafford.
He waited a moment to see if she had any other requests, or rather orders, and then went out and found the gentleman with the strongly marked countenance, in the stable-yard beside the carriage to which the hostler and the help were putting fresh horses.
Stafford raised his hat slightly.
"I am the bearer of a message from the young lady in the dining-room, sir," he said. "She wishes me to tell you that she would prefer to remain here until the evening."
The man swung round upon him with an alert and curious manner, half startled, half resentful.
"What the devil—I beg your pardon! Prefers to remain here! Well!" He muttered something that sounded extremely like an oath, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, told the hostler to take the horses out. "Thank you!" he said to Stafford, grudgingly. "I suppose my daughter is tired: very kind of you."
"Not at all," responded Stafford, politely; and he got on to Adonis, which Mr. Groves himself had led out, and rode away.
The gentleman looked after him with knitted brows.
"What is the name of that young fellow?" he asked of Groves.
"That is Mr. Stafford Orme, Sir Stephen's son, sir," replied Groves.
The gentleman was walking towards the house, but he pulled up short, his eyes narrowed themselves to slits and his thick lips closed tightly.
"A fine young fellow, sir!" said Groves, with respectful enthusiasm. "A splendid specimen of an English gentleman!"
The gentleman grunted and went on to the dining-room.
"What whim is this, Maude?" he asked, irritably.
She yawned behind her beringed hand.
"I am tired. I can't face that stuffy carriage again just yet. Let us dine here and go on afterwards in the cool."
"Oh, just as you like," he said. "It makes no difference to me!"
"I know," she assented. Then, in an indolently casual way, she asked:
"Who was that gentleman who rode by just now?"
Her father glanced at her suspiciously as he took off his overcoat.
"Now, how on earth should I know, my dear Maude!" he replied, with a short, harsh laugh. "Some young farmer or cattle dealer, I imagine."
"I saidgentleman," she retorted, with something approaching insolence. "You will permitmeto know the difference."
Her father coloured angrily, as if she had stung him.
"You'd better go upstairs and take off your things while I order dinner," he said.
As Stafford rode homewards he wondered whom the strange pair could be. It was evident they were not going to stay at the Villa, or they would have driven straight there; but it was also evident that the gentleman had heard of Sir Stephen's "little place," or he would not have asked where it was; but, as Stafford reflected, rather ruefully, it would be difficult for any traveller passing through the neighbourhood not to see the new, great white house, or to hear something, perhaps a very great deal, of the man who had built it.
Howard sauntered down the hall to meet him.
"Good heavens, how wet you look, and, needless to add, how happy. If there is anything in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, my dear Stafford, your future embodiment will be that of a Newfoundland dog. Such an extremely strong passion for cold water is almost—er—indecent. I've had a lovely morning in the library; and your father is still at work with his correspondence. I asked him what he thought of Lord Palmerston's aphorism: that if you left your letters unanswered long enough they answered themselves; and he admitted it was true, and that he had sometimes adopted the plan successfully. There is a secretary with him—a dark and silent man named Murray, who appears to have an automatic, double-action brain; anyway he can write a letter and answer questions at the same time. And he watches your father's lips as if he—the secretary, not Sir Stephen—were a dog waiting for a stone to be thrown. It is interesting to watch—for a time; then it gets on one's nerves. May I ask where you have been?"
"Oh, just for a ride; been trying the new horse: he's a clinker! The governor couldn't have got hold of a better if he'd searched all Arabia, and Hungary to boot. I'll just change and get some lunch. I hope you haven't waited?"
"Your hope is not in vain, young man," replied Howard, suavely; "but I will come and sit beside you while you stoke."
With Measom's aid Stafford was soon into dry clothes and seated at lunch, and, as he had promised, Howard drew a chair to the table, and contemplated him with vicarious enjoyment.
"What an appetite you have!" he drawled, admiringly. "I imagine it would stand by you, even if you were in love. As a specimen of the perfectly healthy animal you stand preeminent, my dear Stafford. By the way, shall I spoil your lunch if I read you out a list of the guests whom we are expecting this afternoon? Sir Stephen was good enough to furnish me with it, with the amiable wish that I might find some friend on it. What do you say to Lord and Lady Fitzharford; the Countess of Clansford; the Baron Wirsch; the Right Honourable Henry Efford; Sir William and Lady Plaistow—"
Stafford looked up and smiled.
"Any more?"
"Oh, yes. There are the two Beltons and George Levinson, to say nothing of Mr. Griffinberg, the railroad king."
Stafford stared at his claret glass.
"I wonder why the governor has asked such a crowd?" he said, musingly.
"A perfectly arranged symphony in colours, I call it," said Howard. "Fashion is represented by the Fitzharfords and old Lady Clansford; politics by Efford and the Beltons, and finance by Plaistow and Wirsch. That Griffinberg is coming is a proof that Sir Stephen has got 'a little railway' in his mind; there are several others who seem to have been thrown in, not to increase weight, but to lighten it. It will be rather amusing—a kind of menagerie which, under less skilful guidance than Sir Stephen's, might be sure to disagree and fight."
Stafford sighed.
"Oh, you'll be all right," he said; "but I don't quite see where I shall come in."
Howard laughed.
"My dear Stafford, there are some extremely pretty girls with whom you can flirt, and I've no doubt some of the men will join you in your eccentric attempts to drown yourself or break your neck.Isthat the sun coming out, and is it going to clear?"
"I hope so," said Stafford, laughing. "For I prophesied a fine evening, and a lady was weak enough to take my word for it. Let us go and rake my father out of the library, and get him into the garden with a cigar."
"You may venture upon such an audacity, but not I," said Howard, with simulated fear. "I'll wait for you on the terrace."
Sir Stephen looked up with a frown as Stafford entered, and the dark-faced secretary stared aghast at the intrusion; but Sir Stephen's face cleared as he saw who it was.
"Back, Stafford?" he said. "What? Come into the garden—cigar? Certainly! You can finish up, can't you, Murray? Thanks!" He looked at his watch as they went through the hall. "I suppose some of the people will be here before long. Did Mr. Howard show you the list? Do you know any of them. Stafford?"
"Yes, I've met Lady Clansford and the Fitzharfords, of course; but most of them are too great and lofty. I mean that they are celebrated personages, out of my small track. One doesn't often meet Sir William Plaistow and Mr. Griffinberg at at homes and afternoon teas." Sir Stephen laughed.
"Oh, well, you mustn't let them bore you, you know, my boy. You must consider yourself quite free to cut off and amuse yourself some other way whenever you get tired of them."
"And leave it all to you, sir!" said Stafford, with a smile; but as he spoke he drew a breath of relief; he should be free to help the beautiful, lovely girl of Herondale.
A few hours later the visitors arrived, and before dinner the superb drawing-room was, if not crowded, sufficiently well filled with the brilliant company.
Nearly all the guests were extremely wealthy, most of them were powerful, either in the region of politics or finance; and the fashionable world was represented by some beautiful women with dresses and diamonds above reproach, and some young men whose names stood high at Hurlingham and Prinses.
Stafford stood beside his father as Sir Stephen went from group to group, greeting one and another in his frank and genial yet polished manner, which grew warm and marked by scarcely repressed pride, as he introduced Stafford.
"My son, Lady Fitzharford. I think he has had the pleasure of meeting you? I scarcely know who are his friends: we have been separated so long! But we are restored to each other at last, I am happy to say! Lady Clansford, you know my boy? Ah, he has had the advantage of me all these years; he has not had to rush all over Europe, but has been able to bask in the sunshine of grace and beauty. Griffinberg, I want my son to know you. You and I are such old friends that you won't mind me showing that I am proud of him, eh?" and he laid his hand on Stafford's shoulder with an air of pride and affection.
"What a lovely place Sir Stephen has made of this, Mr. Orme," said Lady Clansford; "we were quite startled as we drove up, and simply bewildered when we got inside. This room is really—oh well, I'm beggared for adjectives!"
Stafford went about, listening to the encomiums on his father or the house, and making appropriate responses; but he was rather relieved when the butler announced dinner.
The dining-room received its meed of praise from the guests, and the elaboratemenucaused some of the men to beam with inward satisfaction. It was a superb dinner, served with a stateliness which could not have been exceeded if royalty had been amongst the guests. The plate was magnificent, the flowers arranged by an artist's hand, in rich and yet chaste abundance. Stafford, as he looked from the bottom of the table to Sir Stephen at the head, felt with a thrill of pride that his father was the most distinguished-looking man of them all; and he noticed that in the tone of both the men and the women who addressed him there was that subtle note which indicates respect and the consideration which men and women of the world pay to one who has achieved greatness.
And yet, he noticed also, that not one of them was more perfectly at his ease than Sir Stephen, who laughed and talked as if his only aim was that of enjoyment, and as if he had never "planned a plan or schemed a scheme." Every now and then Stafford caught his father's eye, and each time he did so, Sir Stephen smiled at him with that air of pride and affection which he made no attempt to conceal or check. Once or twice Howard, too, caught his eye and smiled significantly as if he were saying, "How is this for a successful party?"
The dinner went swimmingly, and when the ladies had retired Sir Stephen begged the men to close up, and passed the wine freely. The talk was of everything but politics or business—Stafford remarked that not a word was said of either topic; and Sir Stephen told one or two stories admirably and set the laughter going.
"What sort of a night is it, Stafford?" he asked, presently.
Stafford drew the curtain from the open French window, and the moonlight streamed in to fight with the electric lamps.
"Shall we go out on to the terrace?" said Sir Stephen. "Quite warm enough, isn't it?"
They went out; servants brought coffee and cigars, and some of the gentlemen sauntered up and down the terrace, and others went down into the garden. Sir Stephen linked his arm in Stafford's, and they walked a little apart along one of the smooth paths.
"Not bored, I hope, my boy?" he asked.
"Good gracious, no, sir!" replied Stafford. "I don't think I remember a more successful dinner. Why should I be bored?"
"That's all right!" said Sir Stephen, pressing his arm. "I was afraid you might be. They are not a bad set—the men, I mean—if you keep them off their hobbies; and we managed to do that, I think."
"Yes, I noticed you managed them very well, sir," said Stafford. "What a lovely night." They had reached a gate opening on to the road, and they stood and looked at the view in silence for a moment, listening to a nightingale, whose clear notes joined with the voices and laughter of the guests.
Suddenly another sound came upon the night air; a clatter of horses' hoofs and the rattle of wheels.
"Someone driving down the road," said Sir Stephen.
"And coming at a deuce of a pace!" said Stafford. He opened the gate and looked up the road; then he uttered an ejaculation.
"By George! they've bolted!" he said, in his quiet way.
"What?" asked Sir Stephen, as he, too, came out. The carriage was tearing down the hill towards them in the moonlight, and Stafford saw that the horses were rushing along with lowered heads and that the driver had lost all control of them.
As they came towards the two men, Stafford set off running towards them. Sir Stephen called him; Stafford took no heed, and as the horses came up to him he sprang at the head of the nearer one. There was a scramble, a scuffing of hoofs, and a loud, shrill shriek from the interior of the carriage; then the horses were forced on to their haunches, and Stafford scrambled to his feet from the road into which he had been hustled.
The driver jumped down and ran to the horses' heads, the carriage door was flung open and the gentleman of the inn leapt out. Leapt out almost on to Sir Stephen, who ran up breathless with apprehension on Stafford's account. The two men stood and looked at each other in the moonlight, at first with a confused and bewildered gaze, then Sir Stephen started back with a cry, a strange cry, which brought Stafford to his side.
At the same moment, the girl he had seen in the sitting-room at the inn, slipped out of the carriage.
"Are we safe?" she asked faintly. "How did we stop? Who—"
She stopped abruptly, and both she and Stafford stared at the two men who were standing confronting each other. Sir Stephen was as white as a ghost, and there was a look of absolute terror in his dark eyes. On the face of the other man was an enigmatical smile, which was more bitter than a sneer.
"You are all right?" said Stafford; "but I am afraid you were very much frightened!"
The girl turned to him. "You!" she said, recognising him. "Did you stop them?"
"Yes; it was easy: they had had almost enough," he said.
While they were speaking, the two elder men drew apart as if instinctively.
"You, Falconer?" murmured Sir Stephen, with ashy lips.
"Yes," assented the other, drily; "yes, I am here right enough. Which is it to be—friend or foe?"
Sir Stephen stood gnawing his lip for a moment, then he turned toStafford.
"Stafford, this—most extraordinary—this is an old friend of mine.Falconer, this is my boy, my son Stafford!"