He laughed, and blew his nose, and nodded with a shamefaced joy which affected Ida even more than his wonderful news had done.
"How can I thank you for all your goodness to me," she murmured, a little brokenly.
"Thank me! Don't you attempt to thank me, or I shall break down altogether; for I've been the stupidest and most wooden-headed idiot that ever disgraced a noble profession. I ought to have seen through your father's affectation of miserliness and indifference. Anybody but a silly old numskull would have done so. But, my dear, why are we staying here, why don't we go away at once? You'd like to go back to Herondale by the first train? You must hate the sight of this place, I should think."
"No, no," said Ida, gently. "Yes, I would like to go back to Herondale—ah, yes, as soon as possible. But I should like to see someone before I go—the sister, the nurse, who have been so good to me. You are sure"—she paused and went on shyly, "you are sure there is no mistake, that I have some money, am rich?"
"Rich as Croesus, my dear child," he responded, with a laugh.
She blushed still more deeply.
"Then, have you—have you any money with you, Mr. Wordley? I mean quite a large sum of money?" "Not a very large sum, my dear," he replied, rather puzzled. "About twenty or thirty pounds, perhaps."
Ida's face fell.
"Oh, that is not nearly enough," she murmured.
"Eh?" he asked. "But I've got my cheque-book with me. How much do you want? And, forgive me, my dear Miss Ida, but may I ask what you want it for?"
"Can I have a cheque for five hundred pounds?" Ida asked, timidly.
"Five thousand, fifty thousand, my dear!" he responded, promptly, and with no little pride and satisfaction.
"Five hundred will do—for the present," she said a little nervously."Perhaps the porter will let you draw it out."
Still puzzled, Mr. Wordley went into the porter's box and took out his cheque-book.
"Make it payable to the hospital—and give it to me, please," said Ida, in a low voice.
The old man's face cleared, and he nodded.
"Of course, of course! God bless you, my dear! I might have known what was in that good, grateful heart of yours. See here, I've made it out for a thousand pounds. That's five hundred for you and five hundred for me—and don't you say a word to stop me; for I'm only too grateful for the idea. It will cool me down; and upon my word, I feel so excited, so above and beyond myself that I want some safety-valve like this, or I should fall to dancing in the hall and so disgrace myself and the noble profession to which I belong."
With the folded cheque in her hand Ida took him up the many stone steps to the Alexandra ward. The gentle-eyed sister, who had parted from her so reluctantly, was naturally surprised to see her return so soon, and accompanied by a fatherly and prosperous old gentleman, who kept close to her as if he were afraid she might be spirited from him.
"I have come back to—to say good-bye again, sister," said Ida, her voice faltering a little, but her eyes beaming as they had not beamed for many a day; "and I want to give you something, something for the hospital—it is from my dear friend here, Mr. Wordley, who has just found me. And I want you not to open it until we have gone—say, for half an hour. And I am going to write to you as I promised; and you can write to me if you will be so kind; for I can give you the address now. It is on the back of the cheque."
She had written it in the porter's box.
"I am going—home. Something has happened. But I will write and tell you; now I can only say"—her voice broke and trembled—"good-bye, again, and thank you with all my heart." She drew the sister to her and kissed her; and Mr. Wordley shook the sister's hand, and blew his nose so loudly that the patients, who had been watching them eagerly, nodded to each other and exchanged significant glances, and there was a suppressed excitement in the ward which found adequate expression when, half an hour afterwards, the sister with flashed cheek and quavering voice made them acquainted with Ida's gift.
"And now," said Mr. Wordley, after he had shaken hands with several of the officials, including the porter, "and now, my dear Miss Ida, for Herondale and—Home! Hi, cab!"
The journey down to Herondale cannot be described: whenever Ida thought of it in the after years, she felt herself trembling and quivering with the memory of it. Until she had sat in the carriage, and the train had started and she realised that she was indeed going home—home!—she did not know what it had cost her to leave Herondale, how much she had suffered at Laburnum Villa, how deep the iron of dependence had entered her soul. She was all of a quiver with delight, with profound gratitude to the Providence which was restoring her to the old house, the wide moors, the brawling streams which she knew now were dearer to her than life itself.
Mr. Wordley understood, and was full of sympathy with her mood. He bought newspapers and magazines, and he let her alone and pretended to read; but every now and then she met his smiling glance, and knew by his nod of the head that he was rejoicing with her.
He had wired for a carriage and pair to meet them at Bryndermere, and Ida leant back and tried to be patient, then to look unconcerned and calm and composed; but she uttered a little cry and nearly broke down when the carriage stopped at the familiar gate, and Jessie, who was standing there, with her hair blown wild by the wind, forgot the inequalities of their positions, and catching her beloved young mistress to her bosom crooned and sobbed over her.
Jason stood just behind, balancing himself first on one foot, and then on the other, in his efforts to get a glimpse of Ida, and she stretched out her arm over Jessee's shoulder and shook the honest hand which had grown hard and horny in her service. Jessie almost carried her mistress into the hall, where a huge fire was burning and threw a red and cheerful glow over the fading gilding and grey-toned hangings.
"Oh, miss, how thin you be!" she said at last, as, with clasped hands, she surveyed Ida from top to toe anxiously and greedily. "Wherever have you been to look like that? But never mind, Miss Ida; you're back, and that's everything! And we'll very soon get some flesh on your bones and drive the sad look out of thee eyes." In moments of emotion and excitement Jessie forgot the schooling Ida had given her, and lapsed into semi-Westmoreland. "You've missed the moorland air, dearie, and the cream and the milk—I've 'eard it's all chalk and water in London—and I suppose there wasn't room to ride in them crowded streets; and the food, too, I'm told it ain't fit for ordinary humans, leave alone a dainty maid like my sweet mistress."
"Yes, you shall fatten me to your heart's desire, Jessie," said Ida. "I suppose I don't look of much account; I've been ill. But I shall soon get well. I felt, as we drove along the moor, with the wind blowing on my cheek, as if I had not breathed since the hour I left. And now tell me everything—all—at once! Rupert? There's no need to ask about the dogs." Donald and Bess had not yet ceased to tear at her in frantic efforts to express their delight. "Are you glad I've come back, Donald?" she asked in a low voice as she knelt and put her arms round his neck and nestled her face against his, and let him lick her with his great, soft tongue. "Ah, if you are only half as glad as I am, doggie, your heart must be half breaking with the joy of it. And if I'm lean, you are disgracefully fat, Bess. Don't tell me you've missed me, for I don't believe it."
It was some time before Jessie could drag her upstairs; and the sight of her old room, as cheerful as the hall, with the huge fire, almost unnerved her, and when she was alone she sank upon her knees beside the bed in a thanksgiving which was none the less deep and fervent for its muteness.
When she came down the dinner was ready and Mr. Wordley was standing in front of the fire awaiting her. She was glad that Jason had not had time to procure a new livery, was glad of the old shabbiness of the room, that its aspect was not yet changed, and that it greeted her with all its old familiarity, Mr. Wordley would not let her talk until she had made, at any rate, a pretense of eating; but when they had gone into the drawing-room, he drew a chair to the fire for her, and said;
"Now, my dear, I am afraid I shall have to talk business. I shall be too busy to come over to-morrow." He laughed. "You see I have left all my other clients' affairs, to come after my stray lamb: I expect I shall find them in a pretty muddle. Now, my dear, before I go I should like you to tell me exactly what you would like to do. As I have explained to you, you are now the mistress of a very large fortune with which you can do absolutely what you like. Would you like to live here, or would you like to take a house in London, or go abroad?"
Ida looked up a little piteously.
"Oh, not go to London or abroad!" she said. "Can I not live here? If you knew how I feel—how the sight of the place, the thought that I am under the old roof again—"
She looked round the faded, stately room lovingly, wistfully, and Mr.Wordley nodded sympathetically.
"Of course you can, my dear," he said. "But equally o' course, you will now want to restore the old place. There is a great deal to be done, and I thought that perhaps you would like to go away while the work was being carried on."
Ida shook her head.
"No, I would like to stay, even if I have to live in the kitchen or one of the garrets. It will be a delight to me to watch the men at work; I should never grow tired of it."
"I quite understand, my dear," he said. "I honour you for that feeling. Well, then, I shall engage an architect of repute, the first in his profession"—he rubbed his hands with an air of enjoyment—"and he shall restore the old place, with a respect and reverence. I think I know the man to employ; and we will start at once, so that no time may be lost, I want to see you settled in your proper position here. The thought of it gives me a new lease of life! Of course, you will want a proper establishment; more servants both in the house and out of it; you will want carriages and horses; both the lodges must be rebuilt, and the old avenue opened out and put in order. Heron Hall was one of the finest places in the county and it shall be so again."
"And Jessie shall be the housekeeper and Jason the butler," said Ida, with a laugh of almost child-like enjoyment. "Oh, it all seems like a dream; and I feel that at any moment I may wake and find myself at Laburnum Villa. And, oh, Mr. Wordley, I shall want some more money at once. I want to send the Herons a present, a really nice present that will help them, I hope, to forget the trouble I caused them. Poor people! it was not their fault; they did not understand." Mr. Wordley snorted.
"There is one topic of conversation, my dear Miss Ida, I shall be compelled to bar," he said. "I never want to hear Mr. John Heron's name again. As to sending them a present, you can, of course, send them anything you like, to the half of your kingdom; though, if you ask me whether they deserve it—"
"I didn't ask you," said Ida, with a laugh, putting her hand on his arm. "If we all got our deserts, how sad it would be for everyone of us."
Mr. Wordley grunted.
"To-morrow I shall pay a sum of money into the bank for you, and you will have to drive over and get a cheque-book; and you can amuse yourself by drawing cheques until I come again."
He lingered as long as he could, and kept the carriage waiting some time; but at last he went and Ida was left alone to face the strange change in her fortune. She sat before the fire dreaming for a few minutes, then she wandered over the old house from room to room; and every room had its memories and associations for her. In the library she could almost fancy that her father was sitting in the high-backed chair which was still drawn up in its place to the table; and she went and sat in it and touched with reverent, loving hand the books and papers over which he had been wont to bend. She stood before his portrait and gazed at it with tear-dimmed eyes, and only the consciousness of the love she had borne him enabled her to bear his absence. As she passed through the hall the newly risen moon was pouring in through the tall window, and, followed by Donald and Bess, who had not left her for a moment, she opened the great hall door and went on to the terrace, and walking to the end, stood and looked towards the ruined chapel in which her father had buried his treasure.
Up to this moment she had been buoyed up by excitement and the joy and pleasure of her return to the old house; but suddenly there fell a cloud-like depression upon her; she was conscious of an aching void, a lack of something which robbed her heart of all its joy. She had no need to ask herself what it was: she knew too well. Her old home had come back to her, she was the mistress of a large fortune, she stood, as it were, bathed in the sunshine of prosperity; but her heart fell cold and dead, and the sunshine, bright as it was, well-nigh dazzling, indeed, had no warmth in it. She was a great heiress now, would no doubt soon be surrounded by friends. She had been poor and well-nigh friendless that day Stafford had taken her in his arms and kissed her for the first time; but, ah, how happy she had been!
Was it possible, could Fate be so cruel as to decree, that she should never be happy again, never lose the aching pain which racked her heart at every thought of him! She put the fear from her with a feeling of shame and helplessness. Shewouldforget the man who left her for another woman, would not let thought of him cast a shadow over her life and dominate it. No doubt by this time he had quite forgotten her, or, if he remembered her, recalled the past with a feeling of annoyance with which a man regards a passing flirtation, pleasant enough while it lasted, but of which he did well to be a little ashamed.
She would not look in the direction of the trees under which he had stood on the night of the day she had first seen him; and she went in with a forced cheerfulness to tell Jessie, listening with wide-open eyes, of some of the strange things which had happened to her. All the time she was talking, she was beset by a longing to ask Jessie about Brae Wood and the Ormes; but she crushed down the idea; and Jessie was too intent upon hearing the story of her mistress's sojourn in London to have any breath or inclination to tell any of the dale news. Of course Ida did not speak of the disagreement at Laburnum Villa, but she gave Jessie an account of the accident and her experiences of a hospital ward; at all which Jessie uttered "Ohs" and "Ahs" with bated breath and gaping month. It was late before Ida got to bed, and later still before she fell asleep; for, somehow, now that she was back at Herondale the memory of that happy past grew more vivid; in fact, the whole place was haunted by the spectre of her lost love: and of all spectres this is the most sad and heart-possessing.
She was out on Rupert as early as possible the next morning, and it was difficult to say which was the more pleased at the reunion, he or his mistress. And oh, what a delight it was to ride across the moor and along the valley and by the stream; to see the cattle grazing and to hear the sheep calling to one another in the old plaintive way! It was almost difficult to believe that she had ever left Herondale that Laburnum Villa was anything but a nightmare and the Herons a dismal unreality.
Now, for some time, she avoided that part of the road where the opening of the plantation gave a view of the Villa; but she was drawn towards it at last, and she leant forward on her horse and looked across the lake at the great, white place shining in the autumn sunlight. It seemed very still and quiet, and there was no sign of life about the place; the lake itself was deserted save by one of the steamers on which were only a few passengers well wrapped-up against the now keen air. The appearance of the white, long-stretching place struck her with a sense of desertion, and desolation, and with a sigh she turned and rode away.
That afternoon, as she was coming in from the stable Jessie came running towards her.
"Oh, Miss Ida, there's Lord and Lady Bannerdale and Lady Vayne and two of the young ladies in the drawing-room."
"Very well," said Ida, quietly; and removing her right-hand gauntlet, she went straight into the drawing-room.
In accordance with her father's wish and her own, perhaps mistaken, pride she had avoided all these people hitherto; but there was no need to avoid them any longer; she was their equal in birth, and her newly discovered wealth effectually removed any cause for pride. Lady Bannerdale, a motherly and good-natured woman, came forward to meet her, and took her by both hands.
"My dear, we have come over at once to tell you how glad we are!" she said. "We heard the good news from Mr. Wordley, and neither I nor my husband could wait another day before we came to congratulate you."
Lady Vayne, too, held Ida's hand and looked at her with affectionate sympathy.
"And we felt the same, my dear," she said; "so you must not think us intrusive."
Ida shook hands with them all and rang for the tea. She was very quiet and subdued, but the little cold look of surprise with which she had at one time met their advances was now absent, and they could perceive that she was glad to see them.
"Our joy in the good news is not altogether unselfish and disinterested, my dear Miss Ida," said Lord Bannerdale. "That Heron Hall should be shut up and deserted, while there is so charming a mistress to represent the old family, was little short of a general misfortune. You cannot tell how anxious and concerned we have been about you—but we will say no more about that. I trust a brighter star has risen above the old house, and that it is entering upon brighter fortunes. At any rate, let that be as it may, we want you to believe how delighted we are to have you back again, and under such happy auspices." "And we want to say, too, dear," said Lady Bannerdale, while Lady Vayne nodded assentingly, "that we hope you have really come back to us, that you will be one of us and let us see a great deal of you. Of course, under the circumstances," she glanced at Ida's black dress, "we are debarred from expressing our pleasure in festivity; but we hope you will come to us quite quietly, and very often, and that you will let us treat you as one of our own dear girls."
Ida murmured a suitable response; but though she was by no means demonstrative they were satisfied; and as they left they expressed that satisfaction to each other.
"Oh, yes, she was glad to see us," Lady Bannerdale said; "and I like her all the better for not meeting us half-way and for refraining from any gushing. Poor girl! I am afraid she has been very ill, and has felt her trouble very keenly. She is much thinner, and when she came into the room there was an expression in her face which touched me and made my eyes dim."
"We must look after her," remarked Lady Vayne. "There is something weird in the idea of her living there all alone; though, of course, her maid, Jessie, will take care of her."
Lady Bannerdale smiled.
"Ida Heron is one of those girls who are quite capable of taking care of themselves," she said. "How wonderfully calm and self-possessed she was. Most girls would have been rather upset, or, at any rate, a little flurried, meeting us all so unexpectedly; but she came into the room with the perfect unself-consciousness which marks—"
"The high-bred lady," finished Lord Bannerdale. "I wonder whether we realise how old a family the Herons is; we are all mushrooms compared with that slim, little girl, who is now the mistress of Herondale and an enormous fortune."
"We shall have to find a husband for her," remarked Lady Vayne, who was the match-maker of the locality.
Lord Bannerdale smiled.
"The trouble would be to get Miss Ida to accept him when you have found him," he said, shrewdly. "I have an idea she would be difficult to please; there is a little curl to those pretty lips of hers which is tolerably significant."
"Poor girl! There is time enough yet to think of such a thing," said Lady Bannerdale, reprovingly; but while she sat it, mother-like, she thought that her son, Edwin, would be home from a long tour in the East in a week or two; that he was particularly good-looking, and in the opinion of more persons than his mother, a particularly amiable and good fellow.
The next day there were more visitors; they all seemed as genuinely glad at her return, and they all made as genuine overtures of friendship. It was evident that Ida need not be alone in the world any longer, unless she wished to be. On the morning of the third day, as she was riding to Bryndermere, with some shopping as an excuse, she met Mr. Wordley; a gentleman was sitting beside him who, Ida guessed, was the architect. He proved to be no less a personage than the famous Mr. Hartley. They had pulled up for the introduction close by the opening on the lake; and while the architect was exchanging greetings with Ida, his keen eyes wandered now and again to the Villa; and as Ida turned to ride back with them, he said:
"That is rather a fine place over there, Miss Heron; rather bizarre and conspicuous, but striking and rather artistic. New, too: whose is it?"
"Stephen Orme's place," replied Mr. Wordley, in rather a low voice.
"Oh," said Mr. Hartley, with a nod which struck Ida as being peculiarly expressive and significant, though she did not know what it implied.
The three went all over the old Hall and after lunch the great architect explained, with the aid of a sheet of paper and a pencil, his idea of what should be done.
"There need not be, there should not be, the least addition," he said. "What you want to do, Miss Heron, is, as Mr. Wordley says, restore: restore with all reverence. It is a superb piece of architecture of its kind and it must be touched with a gentle hand. If you are prepared to leave it all to me, I trust I may be able to make the present building worthy of its past. It will be a delightful task for me; but I must tell you frankly that it will cost a very large sum of money; how much I shall be able to inform you when I have got out my plans and gone into the estimate; but, at any rate, I can say emphatically that the place is worth the expenditure. Am I to havecarte blanche?"
"Yes," said Ida; "I will leave it entirely in your hands."
This at least she could do with the money which her father had so mysteriously made: restore it, the house he had loved so well well, to its old dignity and grandeur.
The great architect, very much impressed not only by the Hall but its beautiful young mistress, left before Mr. Wordley, who wanted to talk over business with Ida. But he found her rather absent-minded and preoccupied and presently, in a pause, she said, with forced calmness:
"Is Sir Stephen Orme still at the Villa at Brae Wood, Mr. Wordley?"
He had been making some memoranda in his pocket-book and he looked up with a start and stared at her.
"Is Sir Stephen—My dear child, don't you know—haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?" she asked, her face beginning to grow paler, her lips set tightly.
"God bless my soul, I'm surprised!" he exclaimed. "I thought everybody had heard the news. Sir Stephen is not living at the Villa, for a very grave and all-sufficient reason: he is dead, my dear."
Ida leant back in her chair and raised a screen which she held in her hand so that it shielded her face from his gaze.
"I did not know," she said, in a very low voice. "I had not heard, I have not seen any papers, or, if I have, only the advertisement part. Dead!"
"Yes," said Mr. Wordley; "poor man, he died suddenly, quite suddenly, in the middle of a grand ball; died of the shock."
"Shock?" she echoed.
He looked at her as if he found it hard to realise her ignorance.
"Yes; the shock of the bad news. Dear me! it seems so strange that you, a neighbour, so to speak, should not have heard the story of which all London—one might almost say all England—was talking. Sir Stephen was a great financier, and had just brought out a great company to work an important concession in Africa. He was supposed to have made an enormous sum of money by it; indeed, must have done so; but at the very moment of his success there came a stroke of bad luck; and the news of it was brought to him on the night of the ball he was giving in his splendid town house. The sudden reverse meant absolute ruin, and he fell dead with the cablegram in his hand. Shocking, was it not?"
Ida's lips moved, but she could not speak. The whole scene seemed to rise before her; but, naturally enough, her thoughts were concentrated upon one figure in it, that of Stafford.
"Then—then Mr. Stafford Orme is now the baronet, Sir Stafford?" she said in a scarcely audible voice. "No; he is now Lord Highcliffe. His father was raised to the peerage on the day he died—one night almost say the hour he died. That makes it the more unfortunate."
"Unfortunate? I do not understand. You say he is a peer?"
"Yes; but a penniless peer; and I can't imagine a more unpleasant and miserable position than his. His father died absolutely ruined; indeed, insolvent; though I suppose by his son's act of noble self-sacrifice a great many of the debts were paid."
"Tell me—I do not know," said Ida, as steadily as she could.
"Sir Stephen settled a very large sum of money upon the young man; but he refused to take advantage of it, and made over the whole sum, every penny of it, to the creditors; and left himself, I am told, absolutely penniless. Not that it mattered very much; because he is engaged to a Miss Falconer, who father is, I believe, a millionaire."
The colour rose to Ida's face, the hand which held the screen shook.
"And they—they are going to be married soon?" asked she.
"I don't know, I suppose not," replied Mr. Wordley, as he bent over his memoranda again; "Lord Highcliffe has disappeared, left England. No one seems to quite know where he has gone. It was a terrible collapse, and a tragic end, the great Sir Stephen's; but men of his trade always have to run such risks. By the way, I suppose the Villa will have to be sold."
"Sold?" echoed Ida. "I would like to buy it."
She spoke on the impulse of the moment; but Mr. Wordley did not seem at all surprised, and only smiled as he responded:
"I know no reason why you should not, my dear Miss Ida. I am not sure that it would be a good investment; but if you've a fancy for it, I will enquire into the matter. Yes; certainly you can buy if you want to do so."
Long after he had gone Ida sat, leaning forward in her chair and gazing at the fire. Stafford was now Lord Highcliffe, a peer, but poor and a wanderer. She started: was it really he whom she had seen on the cattle steamer? Then they had been near each other, had looked into each other's eyes! Perhaps she would never seem him again—but, ah, yes! it was quite probable she would, for was he not engaged to the wealthy Miss Falconer, and would he not come back to marry her? The following evening she received a short note from Mr. Wordley: it informed her that the Villa was not for sale. It had been purchased by Mr. Falconer for his daughter.
Within a few days she received invitations from the Bannerdales and Vaynes and the other county families, who were evidently possessed by the kind determination that she should become one of them. The dinner at Bannerdale Grange was quiteen famille; she was made a great deal of; and if she had given them the least encouragement they would actually have petted her; but though Ida had lost something of her old pride andhauteur, caused by her isolation, she was still somewhat reserved, and, grateful as she was for their overtures of affection, she could not respond as fully as she would have liked. It was the same with the Vaynes and Avorys; they were all more than kind to her, and she longed to receive their attention with open arms; but she could not: the fact was, her wounded heart was so tender that it shrank even from the gentlest touch.
"The girl is all right," remarked Lord Bannerdale. "She has been in great trouble and it has hurt her very badly; and though she seems rather cold and reserved, she is more sensitive than most women: you must give her time."
Ida had resolved that though she could not altogether forget the great sorrow of her life, she would not brood over it. She knew that for her complaint there was nothing worse than idleness; and she sought employment for her mind and body with an eagerness that sometimes became almost feverish. When she was not visiting or receiving visits from, what might be called her new, friends, she was busy about the farm and the estate, and took long rides on Rupert accompanied as of old by the dogs. Very soon, too, Mr. Hartley began at the restoration; and Ida was deeply interested in the progress of the work. Then, again, the hunting season commenced, and to the delight of Sir Robert Vayne, the master, she appeared at the first meet: and, is it necessary to say? was in at the death. She enjoyed that first run more than she had enjoyed anything since the fatal morning she had lost both sweetheart and father; and she was very nearly happy as she rode home with a crushed hat and a habit splashed with mud.
A week or two afterwards, Lord Bannerdale gave a hunt breakfast, and made a point of her being present; and she yielded though she would have preferred to have joined the meet at the coverts. As she rode up, Lord Bannerdale came down the steps to meet her; and by his side was a tall, good-looking young fellow whom Ida rightly guessed, by his likeness to his father, to be Lord Bannerdale's son. He had returned from his travels on the preceding night, was in perfect health and spirits, much tanned by the sun and rain, and seemed to possess his full share of the amiability of his amiable family. He stood, bare-headed, at Rupert's head and took Ida's hand to help her to dismount, and not only walked with her to the house, but contrived to sit beside her at the breakfast-table. His people had been talking to him of Ida, he was quite prepared to be impressed, and that he was so was evident before the meal had concluded. His mother paid particular attention to Ida, and Lord Bannerdale regarded the young pair approvingly.
Lord Edwin rode as straight as Ida herself; it was a magnificent run—of course, "the best run of the season"—and Lord Edwin, securing the brush, fastened it to her saddle. Those who saw the act—they were not many, for the pace had been fast and hard—exchanged significant glances. Lord Edwin was over at the Hall next day and displayed a keen interest in the restoration, and bent for some time over the plans which he had humbly begged Ida to show him. He was a modest young fellow, with more intelligence and good sense than generally goes with his age, and Ida liked him. It was inevitable that they should meet almost every day; it was almost as inevitable that he should fall in love with her; for she was not only the most beautiful girl in the county, but there was an element of romance in her loneliness and her fortunes which naturally appealed to him.
He went to his father one day and confided in him; but, though Lord and Lady Bannerdale were more than pleased, they begged him not to be too sanguine.
"Sanguine!" he exclaimed, colouring. "I live in a state of mortal fear and dread; for though I love her more every time I see her, I never leave her without feeling that my case is hopeless. There is something about Ida—oh, of course I can't explain!—but I feel as if I could no more speak to her of love than I could—could jump over this house."
"And yet she is so gentle and friendly," said Lady Bannerdale to encourage him.
The young fellow, wise in his generation, shook his head.
"That's just it, mother," he said, gravely. "She treats me as if I were a brother, quite a young brother; and I know that if I were to speak to her, to let her know how much I love her, it would mean the end of everything. I should never be able to see her again—and I could not stand that; for I am only happy when I am with her—and then I am miserable with the thought of having to leave her."
"You must be patient, my dear fellow," said Lord Bannerdale. "Ida Heron is a girl in a million, and she is worth waiting for."
"Oh, I'll wait," said Lord Edwin; "but sometimes I feel that all the waiting in the world won't win her," he added, with a sigh.
One day—it was in the Christmas week which Ida had been prevailed upon to spend with the Bannerdales—Lord Bannerdale came in at luncheon-time with some news.
"I hear the Villa is to be occupied at Christmas," he said. "Mr.Falconer and his daughter are coming down to-day."
"Is there to be a house-party?" said Lady Bannerdale. "But I suppose not. No, there could not be, under the circumstances. Poor girl! Sir Stephen's death—I never can remember that he was Lord Highcliffe! —must have been a great grief and shock to her. She and her father will naturally wish to be quiet; but I suppose we ought to call. You have never seen her, I think, Ida?"
"No," said Ida, in the impassive, reticent way in which she always spoke and looked when on guard.
"An extremely beautiful woman," said Lady Bannerdale; "but she always struck me as being a remarkably cold one; though, of course, it may have only been manner. The present Lord Highcliffe, Sir Stephen's son, has been away some time now. I suppose he will come back soon, and they will be married. They will make a very handsome couple. You would like him, Edwin. I took a great fancy to him on the few occasions I met him; and I felt deeply sorry for his misfortunes. But there will be no lack of money when he and Miss Falconer are married, for her father is immensely rich, I believe. It would be very nice for all of us if Lord Highcliffe settled at the Villa; and I have an idea that Mr. Falconer has bought it for them."
Ida's heart sank, and she seized the first opportunity of getting to her own room. What hope of forgetfulness could there be for her, what chance of happiness if Stafford came back to the Villa to live, if she should be in hourly dread of meeting him? The thought haunted her though all the quiet Christmas festivities at the Grange; and she was glad to get back to the Hall, and away from the eyes which watched her, though they watched her with a friendly and affectionate regard.
In her daily rides she avoided the opening on the lake side from which the Villa was visible; and she would sometimes make a longdetourrather than go near the spot. On one occasion, when returning from Bryndermere, instead of crossing by the ferry she rode round by the other side of the lake, keeping well away from the Villa, lest she should meet anyone belonging to it. She had reached the top of the hill below which wound the road leading to the Hall, and after pausing to look at the magnificent view, was riding across a field, one of the outlying fields of her estate, when she saw a lady riding through a gate at the lower end. The blood rushed to her face and her heart seemed to stand still for a moment, for she saw that it was Maude Falconer; then her face grew pale and a wave of bitterness, grew over her, for she recognised the horse on which Maude was riding: it was Stafford's Adonis. Her first impulse was to turn aside and leave the field; but her pride revolted, and she kept her course, looking straight before her and trying not to see the graceful figure below her.
At sight of her, the blood had flown to Maude's face also, and she tried to check her horse; but Adonis, at any time rather more than she could well manage, was fresh and too eager to join the other horse, and he carried her up the field against her will. The two met almost face to face, the horses exchanging friendly neighs. For a moment, while one could count twenty, the two rivals sat and looked at each other. Half unconsciously, Ida noticed the pallor and the worn look of the beautiful face, the wistful peevishness of the delicately cut lip; then suddenly Maude's face flushed, her eyes grew hard and scornful, and with something like a sneer she said, in a metallic tone:
"I beg your pardon, but are you aware that you are trespassing?"
A saint would have turned on such provocation; and Ida, being no saint, felt that her face was as crimson as the other girl's, and grew as hot of heart as of face. She set her lips tightly and tried to remain silent: surely it would be better, in every way better, to ride on without a word. But it was more than she could do: and she drew herself up and her eyes flashed back the challenge, as she said in a low but distinct voice:
"Pardon me, but you are mistaken. The land on which I am riding belongs to me." Maude grew pale again, and her lips set closely until the line of red almost disappeared.
"Is this not, then, part of the Villa estate?" she asked.
"No; it is part of the Herondale estate," replied Ida, rather more gently: for was it not horrible that she should be engaged in altercation with Stafford's future wife?
"Then I presume I have the honour of speaking to Miss Heron," said Maude, with an indefinable air, combining contempt and defiance, which brought the colour to Ida's face again.
"My name is Ida Heron; yes," she said.
"Then, if you are making no mistake, it is I who am trespassing," said Maude, "and it is I who must apologise. Pray consider that I do so most fully, Miss Heron."
"No apology is necessary," said Ida, still more gently. "You are quite welcome to ride over this or any part of Herondale."
Maude gave a little scornful laugh.
"Thanks, it's very good of you!" she said, haughtily, and with that covert offensiveness of which, alas! a woman alone is capable. "I do not think I shall have any desire to avail myself of your kind permission; the public roads and the land belonging to my father's house will, I think, prove quite sufficient for me. I am the daughter of Mr. Falconer, of the Villa at Brae Wood."
Ida inclined her head slightly by way of acknowledgment and adieu, and without another word rode on towards the gate at the bottom of the field which opened on to the road. Adonis who had been delighted to meet his old friend, promptly followed; and, though Maude Falconer tried her hardest to check him and turn him, he, inwardly laughing at her efforts, trotted cheerfully beside Rupert, and continued their conversation. Maude was half mad with mortification, and, quite unable to leave Ida's hated side, she raised her whip and struck Adonis across the face. The horse, who had never received such a blow before in his life, stopped dead short, falling back almost on to his haunches, then reared straight up and in a moment of temper tried to throw her off; indeed, she must have fallen but Ida, always cool at such moments, swept sideways, caught Adonis's bridle and brought him on all fours. Maude was instantly jerked forward on to the horse's neck in a humiliating fashion, but recovering her seat, sat trembling with passion.
It was impossible not to pity her, and Ida in her gentlest and quietest of voices, said: "I will wait here, will not go through the gate until your groom comes up. Your horse will be quite quiet then. If I might venture to say so, I think it would be wise not to strike him across the head; very few horses can stand it; and this one is high-bred and exceptionally spirited—"
She was stopped by Maude's scornful laugh.
"Really, I ought to feel very much obliged to you, Miss Heron!" she said; "and my sense of obligation is almost as great as my amazement at your frankness—and assurance! May I ask you to be good enough to release my horse's reins?"
Ida's hand fell from the reins, and her face grew crimson; but before she could have retorted, even if she had intended doing so, Maude struck the horse again; it turned and dashed across the field, kicking and plunging violently, with Maude swaying perilously in the saddle.
Ida waited until the groom—it was Pottinger—had gained his mistress's side and got hold of the horse; then, with no thought of bravado but simply with the desire to get away from the spot, she put Rupert at the gate and leapt into the road.
Ida rode home all quivering with the pain of her meeting with Maude Falconer. At first it seemed to her that she must leave Herondale—for a time, at any rate; that it would be impossible for her to run the risk of meeting the beautiful woman who had stolen Stafford from her; but, as she grew calmer, her pride came to her aid, and she saw that to run away would be cowardly. Herondale was her home, had been her home long before the Villa had sprung up, and to desert it because of the proximity of Maude Falconer would be almost as bad as if a soldier should desert his colors.
But for the next few days she did not leave her own grounds. She grew pale and listless, and Lady Bannerdale, when she came to look her up, noticed the change in her, but was too tactful to make any remark upon it.
"We have missed you so much, my dear," she said, affectionately. "Indeed, my husband has been quite fidgety and irritable—so unlike him!—and Edwin has been worse, if it were possible. Men are a great trouble, my dear Ida. Though perhaps I ought not to say that of mine, for I count myself lucky in both husband and son. Edwin has scarcely given me a day's trouble since he was a child. I really think, if I were asked what are the best gifts bestowed by the fairy godmother, I should say 'a good digestion and a temper to match,' and I am quite proud of Edwin's strength and amiability. But even he has been somewhat of a trial for the last few days; so, my dear girl, do come over and help me manage them."
Ida smiled rather absently, and her ladyship glided smoothly from the subject.
"Since we last saw you we have called at the Villa," she said, "and we were fortunate enough to find Miss Falconer at home. She is alone there in that huge palace of a place, for her father has gone back to London; and, though I was never very much taken with her, I could not help pitying her."
"Why?" asked Ida, not absently now, but in her quiet, reserved manner.
"She looks so—well, actually so unhappy," replied Lady Bannerdale. "She was in mourning, and her face—she is really an extremely beautiful girl!—was like marble. And her reception of me was almost as cold. I am afraid that she has had more trouble than we are aware of, there was such a preoccupied and indifferent air about her. It occurred to me that she was fretting for her absentfiancé, Mr. Stafford—oh, dear me! I shall never remember to call him Lord Highcliffe!—and I resolved to carefully refrain from mentioning him; but you know how stupid one is in such a case, how one always talks about lameness in the presence of a man with one leg; and in the midst of a pause in the conversation, which, by the way, was nearly all on my side, I blurted out with: 'Have you heard from Mr. Stafford Orme lately, Miss Falconer?' 'I suppose you mean Lord Highcliffe, Lady Bannerdale?' she said, turning her cold, blue eyes on my scarlet face. 'He is in Australia, and is well. I do not hear very often from him. He is leading a very busy life, and has little time for letter-writing, I imagine.' Of course I got myself away as soon as I could after that, and I'm afraid I left a very bad impression upon Miss Falconer."
Ida said nothing, but leant forward and stirred the fire, which may have caused the colour which glowed for a moment or two on her face.
"I am sure I don't know why the young man should have rushed off to the other end of the world: or why he doesn't rush back again and marry the lady of his heart, who has enough money for both of them, and would make an extremely handsome and stately countess. By the way, have you ever seen the present Lord Highcliffe, my dear?" "Yes, I have seen him," Ida replied in the tone which closes a subject of conversation. "Shall I give you some more tea? No? Would you like to see how the workmen are getting on? I think they are working very quickly. They will want this part of the house presently, and I have an idea of going away for a time; perhaps abroad," she added, though she had put the idea away from her until this moment, and it was only Lady Bannerdale's talk of Maude Falconer which started it again in her mind.
Lady Bannerdale, looked alarmed.
"Oh, don't do that, my dear!" she said. "If you are obliged to turn out of the house, why not come to us? It would be so kind and sweet of you."
Ida sighed a little wearily.
"Oh, I don't suppose they will insist upon ejecting me," she said. "I think I can persuade them to leave me two or three rooms."
Lady Bannerdale went home and dropped her bomb-shell in the presence ofLord Bannerdale and Edwin.
"Ida rather thinks of going abroad," she said in a casual way at the dinner table.
Lord Edwin was raising his wine glass to his lips, but arrested it half-way and set it down again; and his handsome face grew long and grave.
"Oh! We shall miss her," remarked Lord Bannerdale, lamely, and avoiding looking in his son's direction.
Not another word was said; but the next day Lord Edwin came into Lady Bannerdale's room with that affectation of ease and indifference which never yet deceived a mother.
"I'm going to call on Miss Heron, mother," he said. "Any message?"
Lady Bannerdale looked at him, her brow wrinkled with motherly anxiety. There was nothing in the world she desired more than his happiness; and she knew that the marriage with Ida would be in every way desirable: the girl was one in a thousand, the Bannerdale estates almost joined Herondale; both she and her husband were fond of Ida, who, they knew, would prove a worthy successor to the present mistress of the Grange; but just because it seemed so desirable and Lord Edwin's heart was so passionately set upon it, the mother was anxious. She saw that he was dressed with extreme care, and that his face was unusually grave.
"You will give Ida my love, Edwin, please, and tell her—" She turned away that he might not see her anxiety. "That is all; but it means a great deal, as you know, Edwin. I—I wish you every happiness, my dear boy!"
"Thank you, mother," he said, by no means in an unmanly way. "My happiness or unhappiness rests with her."
When he arrived at the Hall, Ida was just going out for a ride. She turned back with him to the drawing-room, thinking that he had brought a message from his mother, probably a definite invitation to stay at the Grange, and in her mind she had already decided to decline it. As he happened to stand with his back to the window the gravity of his face did not enlighten her; and with something like a start she received his first words.
"Miss Heron, my mother says that you have some thought of leaving Herondale, of going abroad. If that is so, I cannot let you go without—without my speaking to you; so I have come over this afternoon to tell you, as well as I can, what I have on my mind and my heart. I'm not very good at expressing myself, and I'm handicapped in the present instance by—by the depth of my feeling. Of course I'm trying to tell you that I love you. I thought you might have seen it," he said, with a touch of wonder at her start and flush of surprise. "But I see you have not noticed it. I love you very much indeed; and I feel that my only chance of happiness lies in my winning you for my wife. I don't know there's any more to be said than that, if I were to talk for a month. I love you, and have loved you for a long time past." A few weeks, a few months are "a long time" to youth when it is in love! "The very first day I saw you—but I needn't tell you that, only I like you to know that it isn't a sudden fancy, and one that I shall get over in a hurry. I don't feel as though I shall ever get over it at all; I don't know that I want to. Please don't speak for a moment. There was something else I wanted to say. I'd got it all arranged as I came along, but the sight of you has scattered it."
Ida had been going to speak, to stop him; but at this appeal she remained silent, standing with her hands closing and unclosing on her whip, her eyes fixed on the ground, her brows drawn straight. The coldest woman cannot listen unmoved to a declaration of love, and Ida was anything but cold.
"I only wanted to tell you," he went on, "that my people are very anxious that you should say 'yes.' Both my father and mother are very fond of you—I think you know that and—" he stammered a little here for the first time—"and—well, there are the estates. You won't mind my saying that both you and I have to think of them; they belong to us and we belong to them, and—if we were married—But I don't lay much stress upon the estates being so close. I'd come and ask you to marry me if I were as poor as a church mouse or you hadn't a penny. It just comes to this: that I love you with all my heart and soul, that if you'll marry me I shall be the happiest man, and my people the proudest people, in England."
There was a warm flush on his handsome face, an eager look in his bright eyes, and he had pleaded his cause very well, in an outspoken, manly way, which never fails to appeal to a woman. Ida was moved; the crop nearly snapped in her hands, and her eyes grew moist. He saw it, and tried to take her hand, but she, though she did not move, shook her head very gently but very resolutely.
"No," she said, in a low voice, "I—I want to tell you, Lord Edwin, how proud I am at the honour you have paid me. Like yourself, I am not good at expressing my feelings—though, indeed, I think you have done yourself an injustice: you have spoken, told me very well—and I am very grateful. I wish I could say 'yes.'"
"Ah, say it!" he implored her, eagerly.
She shook her head again, and lifting her eyes and looking at him straightly but sadly, she said in a still lower voice:
"Lord Edwin, I do not love you."
"I never said, thought, you did," he responded, promptly. "Why, you've only known me such a short time, and I'm not such a conceited bounder to think that you've fallen in love with me already. I only want you to let me try and win your love; and—I think I shall do so," he said in a modest but manly way, which would at once have won Ida's heart—if it had not been won already. "If you will only give me some hope, just tell me that I've a chance, that you'll let me, try—"
Ida smiled a sad little smile.
"If I said as much as that—But I cannot. Lord Edwin, you—you have told me that you love me, and it would not be fair—ah, please don't try to persuade me! Don't you see how terrible it would be if I were to let you think that I might come to care for you, and I did not do so."
"For God's sake, don't say 'no,'" broke from him, and his face paled under the tan.
She turned away from him, her eyes full of tears which she dared not let him see.
"I—I must have time," she said, almost desperately. "Will you give me a day, two days?" she asked, quite humbly. "I want to do what you want, but—I want to think: there is something I should have to tell you."
He flushed to the roots of his hair.
"If it's anything that's happened in the past, anyone else—of course, loving you as I do, I have seen that there has been something on your mind, some trouble besides your father's death—but if it is past, I don't mind. I know I can teach you to forget it, whatever it is. Ida, trust yourself to me."
She drew away from him.
"Give me two days," she said, with a catch in her breath.
He caught at the hope, small though it was.
"I will give you two days, twenty if you like," he said. "Only, while you are thinking it over, remember I love you with all my heart and soul, that my people will love you as a daughter, that—Oh, I won't say any more: I can't trust myself! I'll go now."
When he had gone Ida got on Rupert and rode to the top of the hill. There she pulled up and thought with all her heart and mind. She could not doubt his love; she could not but feel that if she surrendered herself to him he would, indeed, in time teach her to forget. She knew that it was her duty to marry; his word about the estates had not been spoken in vain. Yes; if she became Lord Edwin's wife, she would in time forget. But, alas! she did not want to forget.
Her love for Stafford was still as strong as ever, and with its bitterness was mingled a sweetness which was sweeter than life itself. And yet how great a sin it was, how shameful a one, that she should love a man who was pledged to another woman, who was going to marry her!
She came in late for dinner, and could scarcely eat. Her reason said "yes," her heart said "no:" and she knew that she ought to listen to her reason and turn a deaf ear to the still voice in her heart. She paced up and down the drawing-room, pale and wan with the fight that was going on within her. Then suddenly she resolved that she would accept him. She would not keep him in suspense: it would not be fair—it would be a cruel requital of his love and generosity. She went to the writing-table, and hurriedly, as if she were afraid of hesitating, she drew a sheet of paper towards her and wrote:
"Dear Lord Edwin—" She had got thus far when Donald and Bess, who had been lying beside the fire, sprang up and ran to the door barking loudly. She laid down the pen and opened the door mechanically; the moonlight was streaming through the window in the hall; the dogs bounded to the front door still barking vociferously. Still, mechanically, she let them out, and they rushed across the terrace and over the lawn to the group of trees beside the footpath. Thinking that they heard Jessie, whom she had sent to Bryndermere, Ida, half-unconsciously glad of the interruption, followed them slowly across the lawn.
Their barking ceased suddenly, and convinced that it was Jessie, she went on to add something to her message. Then, suddenly, she saw a tall figure standing in the shadow of the trees. It was a man, and Donald and Bess were jumping up at him with little whines of pleasure. Smitten by a sudden fear she stopped; but the man raised his head and saw her, and, with an exclamation, strode towards her. For an instant she thought that she was dreaming, that her imagination was playing her false, for it was Stafford's form and face. They stood and gazed at each other; her brain felt dizzy, her pale face grew paler; she knew that she was trembling, that she could scarcely stand; she began to sway to and fro slightly, and he caught her in his arms.
She did not resist, but resigned herself to his embrace, as if he still had the right to take her in his arms, as if she still belonged to him. She had been under a great, an indescribable strain for several hours, and his sudden presence, the look in his eyes, the touch of his hands, deprived her of the power of thought, of resistance. To her and to him, at that moment, it was as if they had not been parted, as if the events of the last few months were only visionary.
With surrender in every fibre of her being she lay in his arms, her head upon his breast, her eyes closed, her heart throbbing wildly under the kisses which he pressed passionately upon her lips, her hair; the while he called upon her name, as if his lips hungered to pronounce it.
"Stafford!" she said, at last. "It is really you! When—" Her voice died away, as if she were speaking in a dream, and her eyes closed with a little shudder of perfect joy and rest.
"Yes, it's I!" he responded, in a voice almost as low as hers, a voice that trembled with the intensity of his passion, his joy in having her in his arms again. "Last night I came down by the first train—I waited at the station for it—I came straight from the docks." She drew a happy sigh.
"So soon? And you came straight here? When I saw you just now, I thought it was a vision: if the dogs had not been here—I remembered that dogs do not see ghosts. Oh, Stafford, it is so long, so very long since I have seen you, so sad and dreary a time! Tell me—ah, tell me everything! Where you have been. But I know! Stafford, did you know that I saw you the day you sailed?" she shuddered faintly. "I thought that was a vision, too, that it was my fancy: it would not have been the first time I had fancied I had seen you." He drew her to the bank, and sinking on it held her in his arms, almost like a child.
"You saw me! You—there in London! And yet I can understand. Dearest, I did not hear of your trouble until a few weeks ago. But I must tell you—"
"Yes, tell me. I long to hear! Think, Stafford! I have not heard of you—I saw you at the concert in London one night—"
He started and held her more tightly.
—"I looked round and saw you; and when you turned and looked up towards me, it seemed as if you must have seen me. But tell me! Oh, I want to hear everything!"
The spell wrought by the joy of his presence still held her reason, her memory, in thrall; one thought, one fact, dominated all others: the fact that he was here, that she was in his arms, with her head on his breast as of old.
And the spell was on him as strongly; how could he remember the past and the barrier he had erected between them?
"I went to Australia, Ida," he said in a low voice, every note of which was pitched to love's harmony: it soothed while it rejoiced her. "I met a man in London, a farmer, who offered to take me out with him. You saw me start, you say? How strange, how wonderful! And I, yes, I saw you, but I could not believe my senses! How could it be my beautiful, dainty Ida, the mistress of Herondale, standing on the dirty, squalid quay! I went with him and worked with him on his cattle-run. Do you remember how you taught me to count the sheep, Ida? God, how often when I was riding through solitary wastes I have recalled those hours, every look of your dear eyes, every curve of those sweet lips—hold them up to me, dearest!—every tone of your voice, the low, musical voice the memory of which had power to set every nerve tingling with longing and despair. The work was hard, it seemed unceasing, but I was glad of it; for sometimes I was too weary to think; too weary even to dream of you. And it was sad business dreaming of you, Ida; for, you see, there was the waking!"
"Do I not know!" she murmured, with something like a sob, and her hand closed on his shoulder.
"My employer was a pleasant, genial man, my fellow-labourers were good fellows; I could have been happy, or, at least, contented with the life, hard as it was, if I could but have forgotten; if I could even for a day have lost the awful hunger and thirst for you; if I could have got you out of my mind, the memory of you out of my heart—but I could not!"
He paused, looking straight before him; and gazing up at him, she saw his face drawn and haggard, as if he still thought himself separated from her. Then, as if he remembered, he looked down at her and caught her to him with a sudden violence that almost hurt her.
"But I could not; you haunted me, dearest, all day and all night! Sometimes, when the men were singing round the camp fire, singing and laughing, the sense of my loss would come crushing down upon me, and I'd spring to my feet and wander out into the starlit silence of the vast plains and spend the night thinking of all that had passed between us. At other times, a kind of madness would catch hold of me, and I'd join the wildest of the gangs, and laugh and sing and drink with the maddest of the lot."
She drew a long breath of comprehension and pity, and hid her eyes on his breast. He bent and kissed her, murmuring penitently:
"I'm not fit to kiss you, Ida. I did not mean to tell you, but—but, I can't keep anything from you, even though it will go against me. One night the drinking led to fighting and I stood up to a son of Anak, a giant of a fellow; and we fought until both of us were knocked out; but I remember him going down first, just before I fell, I went from bad to worse. The owner of the run—it was called Salisbury Plain—spoke a word of warning, and I tried to pull up, tried to take to the work again, and forget myself in it; but—ah, well, dearest, thank God you would not understand that you cannot know what a man is like when he is at odds with fate, and is bed-fellow with despair!"
"Do I not!" she murmured again, with the fullest understanding and compassion. "Do you think he is worse than a woman. On, Stafford, there have been times, black times, when I learned to know why some women fly to drink to drown their misery: and our misery is as keen, yes, keener than yours. For we are so helpless, so shackled; we have nothing else to do but think, think, think! Go on, dearest! I seem to see you there!"
"Thank God! you could not!" he said, huskily. "The black fit passed for a time, and I settled down to work again. One day there was an attack upon the farm by the blacks, as they are called. I was fortunately at home, and we managed to beat them off and save the stock. It was a valuable one and my employer, thinking too highly of my services, made me a present of half the value. It was a generous gift, a lavish one, and altogether uncalled for—"
"Oh, Stafford, do you think I don't know that you risked your life, as plainly as if I had been told, as if I had been there!" she said, her eyes glowing, her breath coming faster.
Stafford coloured and turned away from the subject.
"It was a large sum, and Mr. Joffler—that is the name of the owner of Salisbury Plain—advised me to invest it in a run of my own: there was enough to buy a large and important one. I went down to Melbourne to see the agents, and—is there no such thing as fate, or chance, Ida! Indeed there is!—as I was walking down one of the streets, I heard my name spoken. I turned and saw the stableman from the Woodman Inn, Mr. Groves's man—"
"Henry," murmured Ida, enviously: for had he not met her lover!
"Yes. He was surprised, but I think glad, to see me; and we went to a hotel and talked. For some time I couldn't bring myself to speak your name: you see, dearest, it had lived in my heart so long, and I had only whispered it to the stars, and in the solitary places, that I—I shrank from uttering it aloud," he explained with masculine simplicity.
Ida's eyes filled with tears and she nestled closer to him.
"At last I asked after the people, and nervously mentioned the Hall and—and 'Miss Ida.' Then the man told me."
His voice grew lower and he laid his hand on her head and stroked her hair soothingly, pityingly.
"He told me that your father was dead, had died suddenly, and worse—for it was worse to me dearest—that you had been left poor, and well-nigh penniless."
She sighed, but as one who sighs, looking back at a sorrow which has passed long ago and is swallowed up in present joy.
"I asked him where you were, and when he told me that you had left the Hall, and that it was said you—you were working for a livelihood, that you were in poverty, I—dearest, I felt as if I should go mad. Think of it! There was I, all those thousands of miles away, with all that money in my possession, and you, the queen of my heart, the girl I loved better than life itself, in poverty and perhaps wanting a friend!" He was silent a moment, and Ida felt him shudder as if he were again tasting the bitterness of that moment.
"When I had taken my passage," he went on, succinctly, "I sent Henry up to the run to fill my place, and with him a letter to explain my sudden departure; and the next day, Heaven being kind to me—I should have gone out of my mind if I had had to wait—we sailed. I stood at the bow, with my face turned towards England, and counted the days before I could get there and begin my search for you."
"And you came here, Stafford, first?" she said, to lead him on: for what an unspeakable bliss it was to listen to him!
"Yes; I knew that I should hear some tidings of you here. There would be a lawyer, a steward, who would know. I little thought, hoped, to see you yourself, Ida. I came from the station to-night to look at the old place, to walk where we had walked, to stand where we had stood. I stopped under the trees here and looked at the house, at the terrace where I had seen you, watched for you. I could see that men had been at work, and I thought that you had sold the place, that the new people were altering it, and I cursed them in my heart; for every stone of it is sacred to me. And then, as I stood looking, and asking myself where you were, the dogs came. Even then it did not occur to me that you were still here—at the Hall—and when I saw you—"
He stopped, and laughed shortly, as a man does when his emotion is almost too much for him.
"I'd made up my mind what to write to you; but, you see, I'd had no thought, no hope, of seeing you; and now—ah, well, it's hard to think of anything, with you in my arms! But see here, Ida, there isn't any need to say anything, is there? You'll come back with me to that new world—"
What was it, what word in the tender, loving speech that, like a breath of wind sweeping away a mountain mist, cleared the mist from her mind, woke her from her strange, dream-like condition, recalled the past, and, alas! and alas! the present!
With a low cry, a cry of anguish—one has heard it from the lips of a sufferer waking from the anodyne of sleep to fresh pain—she tore herself from his arms, and with both hands to her head, stood regarding him, her face white, something like terror in her eyes.
"Ida!" he cried, rising and stretching out his hands to her.
She shrank back, putting out her hand as if to keep him off.
"Don't—don't come near me! Oh, how could I have forgotten!—how couldI! I must have been mad!"
She wrung her hands and bit her lips as if she were tortured by the shame of it. His arms fell to his sides, and he stood and looked at her with his teeth set.
"Ida, listen to me! I—I, too—had forgotten. It—it was the delight of seeing you. But, dearest, what does the past matter? Itispast, I have come back to you."
She turned to him with suppressed passion.
"Why did you leave me?" came painfully from her white lips.
His face grew red and his eyes fell before hers for a moment. At times his sacrifice of her to his father's need had seemed not only inexcusable, but shameful; the shame of it now weighed upon him.
"Ida, for God's sake listen to me!" for, as he had hesitated, she had turned from him with a gesture of repudiation. "Listen to me! There was nothing else for me to do; fate left me no alternative. My father—Ida, how can I tell you!—my father's good name, his reputation, were in my hands. He had done so much for me—everything! There has never been a father like him: my happiness stood between him and ruin—ah, not mine alone, but yours—and I sacrificed them! If you knew all you would forgive me the wrong I did, great as it was. I think now, if the time were to come over again, that—yes, I should have to do it!" he broke out. "I could not have stood by and seen-him ruined and disgraced without stretching out my hand to save him."
"It was for your father's sake?" she said, almost inaudibly.
"Yes," he responded, grimly. "And it saved him—saved his good name, at any rate. The rest went—you have heard?"