English Literature

At Love’s Cost by Charles Garvice

At Love's Cost by Charles Garvice.jpg

CHAPTER 1

“Until this moment I have never fully realised how great an ass a man can be. When I think that this morning I scurried through what might have been a decent breakfast, left my comfortable diggings, and was cooped up in a train for seven hours, that I am now driving in a pelting rain through, so far as I can see for the mist, what appears to be a howling wilderness, I ask myself if I am still in possession of my senses. I ask myself why I should commit such lurid folly. Last night I was sitting over the fire with a book—for it was cold, though not so cold as this,” the speaker shivered and dragged the collar of his overcoat still higher—”at peace with all the world, with Omar purring placidly by my side, and my soul wrapped in that serenity which belongs to a man who has long since rid himself of that inconvenient appendage—a conscience, and has hit upon the right brand of cigarettes, and now—”

He paused to sigh, to groan indeed, and shifted himself uneasily in the well-padded seat of the luxurious mail-phaeton.

“When Williams brought me your note, vilely written—were you sober, Stafford?—blandly asking me to join you in this mad business, I smiled to myself as I pitched the note on the fire. Omar smiled too, the very cigarette smiled. I said to myself I would see you blowed first; that nothing would induce me to join you, that I’d read about the lakes too much and too often to venture upon them in the early part of June; in fact, had no desire to see the lakes at any time or under any conditions. I told Omar that I would see you in the lowest pit of Tophet before I would go with you to—whatever the name of this place is. And yet, here I am.”

The speaker paused in his complaint to empty a pool water from his mackintosh, and succeeded—in turning it over his own leg.

He groaned again, and continued.

“And yet, here I am. My dear Stafford, I do not wish to upbraid you; I am simply making to myself a confession of weakness which would be pitiable in a stray dog, but which in a man of my years, with my experience of the world and reputation for common sense, is simply criminal. I do not wish to reproach you; I am quite aware that no reproach, not even the spectacle of my present misery would touch your callous and, permit me to frankly add, your abominably selfish nature; but I do want to ask quite calmly and without any display of temper: what the blazes you wanted to come this way round, and why you wanted me with you?”

The speaker, a slightly built man, just beyond the vague line of “young,” glanced up with his dark, somewhat sombre and yet softly cynical eyes at the face of his companion who was driving. This companion was unmistakably young, and there was not a trace of cynicism in his grey-blue eyes which looked out upon the rain and mist with pleasant cheerfulness. He was neither particularly fair nor dark; but there was a touch of brighter colour than usual in his short, crisp hair; and no woman had yet found fault with the moustache or the lips beneath. And yet, though Stafford Orme’s face was rather too handsome than otherwise, the signs of weakness which one sees in so many good-looking faces did not mar it; indeed, there was a hint of strength, not to say sternness, in the well-cut lips, a glint of power and masterfulness in the grey eyes and the brows above them which impressed one at first sight; though when one came to know him the impression was soon lost, effaced by the charm for which Stafford was famous, and which was perpetually recruiting his army of friends.

No doubt it is easy to be charming when the gods have made you good to look upon, and have filled your pockets with gold into the bargain. Life was a pageant of pleasure to Stafford Orme: no wonder he sang and smiled upon the way and had no lack of companions.

Even this man beside him, Edmund Howard, whose name was a by-word for cynicism, who had never, until he had met Stafford Orme, gone an inch out of his self-contained way to please or benefit a fellow-man, was the slave of the young fellow’s imperious will, and though he made burlesque complaint of his bondage, did not in his heart rebel against it.

Stafford laughed shortly as he looked at the rain-swept hills round which the two good horses were taking the well-appointed phaeton.

“Oh, I knew you would come,” he said. “It was just this way. You know the governor wrote and asked me to come down to this new place of his at Bryndermere—”

“Pardon me, Stafford; you forget that I have been down South—where I wish to Heaven I had remained!—and that I only returned yesterday afternoon, and that I know nothing of these sudden alarums and excursions of your esteemed parent.”

“Ah, no; so you don’t!” assented Stafford; “thought I’d told you: shall have to tell you now; I’ll cut it as short as possible.” He paused for a moment and gently drew the lash of the whip over the wet backs of the two horses who were listening intently to the voice of their beloved master. “Well, three days ago I got a letter from my father; it was a long one; I think it’s the first long letter I ever received from him. He informed me that for some time past he has been building a little place on the east side of Bryndermere Lake, that he thought it would be ready by the ninth of this month; and would I go down—or is it up?—there and meet him, as he was coming to England and would go straight there from Liverpool. Of course there was not time for me to reply, and equally, of course, I prepared to obey. I meant going straight down to Bryndermere; and I should have done so, but two days ago I received a telegram telling me that the place would not be ready, and that he would not be there until the eleventh, and asking me to fill up the interval by sending down some horses and carriages. It occurred to me, with one of those brilliant flashes of genius which you have so often remarked in me, my dear Howard, that I would drive down, at any rate, part of the way; so I sent some of the traps direct and got this turn-out as far as Preston with me. With another of those remarkable flashes of genius, it also occurred to me that I should be devilish lonely with only Pottinger here,” he jerked his head towards the groom, who sat in damp and stolid silence behind. “And so I wrote and asked you to come. Kind of me, wasn’t it?”

“Most infernally kind,” said Howard, with a sigh of a ton weight. “Had you any idea that your father was building this little place? By the way, I can’t imagine Sir Stephen building anything that could be described as ‘little’.

“You are right,” assented Stafford, with a nod. “I heard coming down that it was a perfect palace of a place, a kind of palace of art and—and that sort of thing. You know the governor’s style?” His brows were slightly knit for just a second, then he threw, as it were, the frown off, with a smile. “No, I knew nothing about it; I knew as little about it as I do of the governor himself and his affairs.”

Howard nodded.

“When you come to think of it, Howard, isn’t it strange that father and son should know so little of each other? I have not seen the governor for I forget how many years. He has been out of England for the last fourteen or fifteen, with the exception of a few flying visits; and on the occasion of those visits I was either at school on the Continent or tramping about with a gun or a rod, and so we never met. I’ve a kind of uneasy suspicion that my revered parent had no particular desire to renew his acquaintance with his dutiful offspring; anyway, if he had, he would have arranged a meeting. Seems rather peculiar; for in every other respect his conduct as a parent has been above reproach.”

“Those are scarcely the terms by which I should designate a liberality which can only be described as criminally lavish, and an indifference to your moral progress which might more properly belong to an unregenerate Turk than to an English baronet. Considering the opportunities of evil afforded you by the possession of a practically unlimited allowance, and a brazen cheek which can only be described as colossal, the fact that you have not long since gone headlong to the devil fills me with perpetual and ever-freshening wonder.”

Stafford yawned and shrugged his shoulders with cheerful acquiescence.

“Should have gone a mucker ever so many times, old man, if it hadn’t been for you,” he said; “but you’ve always been at hand just at the critical moment to point out to me that I was playing the giddy goat and going to smash. That’s why I like to have you with me as a kind of guide, monitor, and friend, you know.”

Howard groaned and attempted to get rid of another miniature pool of water, and succeeded—as before.

“I know,” he assented. “My virtue has been its own reward—and punishment. If I had allowed you to go your way to the proverbial dogs, after whose society gilded youths like yourself appear to be always hankering, I should not be sitting here with cold water running down my back and surrounded by Nature in her gloomiest and dampest aspects. Only once have I deviated from the life of consistent selfishness at which every sensible man should aim, and see how I am punished! I do not wish to be unduly inquisitive, but I should like to know where the blazes we are going, and why we do not make for a decent hotel—if there is such a thing in these desolate wilds.”

Stafford handed him the reins so that he himself might get out his cigar-case, and with some little difficulty, and assisted by Pottinger’s soaked hat, the two gentlemen got their cigars alight.

“There isn’t a decent hotel for miles,” explained Stafford. “There is only a small inn at a little place called Carysford. I looked it out on the map. I thought we’d drive there today, put up for the night to give the horses a rest, and go on to this place of my governor’s the next day. It’s on the opposite side of the lake.”

He jerked his whip to the right.

“Which side, what lake?” asked Howard, hopelessly. “I see nothing of the lake, nothing but mist and sodden hills. No wonder the word ‘poet’ instinctively arouses one’s animosity. When I think of the number of well-meaning and inspired idiots who have written reams of poetry about this place, I feel at this present moment as if I could cheerfully rend even a Wordsworth, a Southey, or a Coleridge; and I look back with remorse upon the hours, the throbs of admiration, I have expended upon what I once deemed their inspired pages. If I remember rightly, most of the lake poets went off their heads; when I gaze around me I must admit that I am not surprised.”

Stafford laughed absently; he was quite accustomed to Howard’s cynical vein.

“They’re all right enough,” he said. “That is, I suppose they are, for I never read any of ’em since I left school. Oh, yes, they’re right enough about the beauty of the place; you should see it on a fine day.”

“Has anyone seen it on a fine day?” inquired Howard, with the innocent air of one simply seeking information. “I asked a countryman in the train if it always rained here, and he replied, ‘No; it sometimes snows.'”

“That’s a chestnut,” remarked Stafford, with a laugh. “But it’s all nonsense about its always being wet here; they tell me it’s fine for weeks together; that you can never tell any instant whether it’s going to clear up or not; that the weather will change like a woman—Good heavens, look at that!”

He nodded to the east as he spoke.

Unnoticed by them, the sky had been clearing gradually, the mists sweeping, dissolving, away; a breath of wind now wafted them, like a veil thrown aside, from hill and valley and lake, and a scene of unparalleled beauty lay revealed beneath them. The great lake shone like a sapphire; meadows of emerald, woods of darker green, hills of purple and grey, silver and gold, rose from the bosom and the edge of the great liquid jewel; the hills towering tier on tier into the heavens of azure blue swept by clouds like drifting snow.

The two men gazed in silence; even Pottinger, to whom his ‘osses generally represented all that was beautiful in nature, gaped with wide-open mouth.

“How’s that for lofty, you unbeliever?” demanded Stafford. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

Howard had been considerably startled, but, of course, he concealed his amazed admiration behind a mask of cynicism.

“Rather a crib from Val Prinsep, isn’t it, with a suggestion of a Drury Lane pantomime about it? Good heavens! And there’s the Fairy Palace all complete,” he added, as, the mists still rising, was discovered on the slope of the other side a long and extremely ornate building, the pure whiteness of which was reflected in the marvellous blue and opal of the lake. “Can that be Sir Stephen’s ‘little place’?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Stafford. “It looks like the governor,” he added, with a touch of gravity.

“Well, it’s very big, or, rather, long; and it’s very white, but one’s bound to admit that it doesn’t spoil the landscape,” said Howard; “in fact, standing there amidst the dark-green trees, with its pinnacles and terraces, it’s rather an ornament than otherwise. I suppose there are flowers on those velvety lawns; and the interior, I’ll wager my life, matches the exterior. Fortunate youth to possess a Croesus for a father:”

“Yes; I suppose the governor must be tremendously oafish,” said
Stafford.

“The man who can build such a palace as that, and have the cool cheek to call it ‘a little place,’ must in common decency be a multi-millionaire.”

Stafford nodded and smoked thoughtfully for a minute as Pottinger left the horses’ heads and climbed into his seat behind, and the mail-phaeton moved along the road, which began to dip down at this point.

“I know so little about my father,” he said again.

“And yet the world knows so much,” remarked Howard, throwing open his waterproof and basking in the sun which shone as warmly and unreservedly as if it had never heard of such a thing as rain. “One can’t take up the paper without seeing some mention of Sir Stephen Orme’s great name. One day he is in Paris negotiating a state loan; another you read he is annexing, appropriating, or whatever you call it, a vast tract in Africa or Asia; on the third you are informed with all solemnity that he has become director of a new bank, insurance company, or one of those vast concerns in which only Rothschilds and Barings can disport themselves. Now and again you are informed that Sir Stephen Orme has been requested to stand for an important constituency, but that he was compelled to decline because of the pressure of his numerous affairs. There may be a more famous and important individual in the world than your father, my dear Stafford, but I can’t call him to mind at this moment.”

“Chaff away,” said Stafford, good-humouredly. “At any rate, he has been a jolly liberal father to me. Did I tell you that just before he came home be placed a largish sum at his bank for me; I mean over and above my allowance?”

“You didn’t tell me, but I’m not at all surprised,” responded Howard.
“A truly wonderful father, and a model to all other parents. Would that
I possessed such a one. You don’t remember your mother, Stafford?”

The young fellow’s handsome face softened for an instant; and his voice was low and grave as he replied:

“No—and yet sometimes I fancy that I do; though, seeing that she died when I was quite a kid, it must be only fancy. I wish she’d lived,” his voice became still lower; “I wish I had a brother, or a sister, especially a sister—By George! that’s a fine stream! Did you see that fish jump, Howard?”

“No, I was too much occupied in jumping myself. I thought by your exclamation that something had happened to the carriage or the horses, and that we were on the verge of a smash-up. Let it jump if it amuses it.”

“So it may—if I don’t catch it,” said Stafford, pulling up the horses near the bank of the stream.

“Do you mean to tell me that you are going to fish?” demanded Howard, with a groan. “My dear Stafford, I know that being that abominable thing—a sportsman—you are consequently mad; but you might have the decency to curb your insanity out of consideration for the wretched man who has the misfortune to be your companion, and who plainly sees that this period of sunshine is a gilded fraud, and that presently it will rain again like cats and dogs.”

Stafford laughed. He had got down and dragged out a rod and a fishing-basket.

“Sorry, old chap,” he said, “but no fisherman could lose such a chance as this, even to save his best friend from rheumatic fever. I thought we should come across a stream or two, and I put on these togs accordingly.” He wore a Norfolk suit of that wonderful Harris tweed which, strange to say, keeps out the rain, the heat, and the cold; and flies were stuck in his cap of the same material. “But, look here, there’s no need for me to keep you; Pottinger will drive you to this place, Carysford, where we stay the night—I’ve engaged rooms—and you can have a warm bath and get into the dress-clothes after which you are hankering. When I’ve caught a fish or two I’ll come on after you. Don’t argue, now!”

“My dear Stafford, I haven’t the least intention of doing so; I’m simply dying for a bath, a change, and a huge fire; and when you arrive you’ll find me sitting over the latter humbly thanking God that I’m not a sportsman.”

Stafford nodded, with his eyes on the stream.

“I should give the nags some gruel, Pottinger, and put an extra coat on them: it’ll be cold to-night. Ta, ta, Howard! Tell ’em to get a nice dinner; I’ll be there in time for ’em to cook the fish; but don’t wait if I should be late—say half past seven.”

“I promise you I won’t,” retorted Howard, fervently. “And I am one of those men who never break a promise—unless it’s inconvenient.”

The phaeton drove on, Stafford went down to the stream, put up his rod, chose a fly as carefully as if the fate of a kingdom depended on it, and began to fish.

There is this great advantage in the art of fly-fishing: that while you are engaged in it you can think of nothing else: it is as absorbing as love or scarlet fever. Stafford worked his fly steadily and systematically, with a light and long “cast” which had made him famous with the brethren of the craft, and presently he landed a glittering trout, which, though only a pound in weight, was valued by Stafford at many a pound in gold. The fish began to rise freely, and he was so engrossed in the sport that he did not notice that Howard’s prophecy had come true, that the mist had swept over the landscape again, and that it was raining, if not exactly cats and dogs, yet hard enough to make even the opposite bank a blur in his vision.

But Stafford was utterly indifferent to rain and mist while the trout were rising, and his basket was half full before he looked around him. It is wonderful, when you are fishing, how great a distance you can walk without noticing it. He had followed the winding course of the stream until it had left the road far behind and struck into a valley, the wildness, the remoteness of which was almost awe-inspiring; and he stood still for a moment and looked up at the sky into which the tall, sharp peaks of the hills lost themselves. The stream, broken by huge boulders, rumbled with a soft roar which was the only sound that broke the stillness. It was the silence, a profound stillness, which makes one feel as if one has wandered into an unknown world newly made and as yet untouched by the foot of man, unsullied by his presence.

Stafford could not have quoted a verse of poetry to save his life; it wasn’t in his line; he could ride straight, was a first-rate shot, waltzed like an angel, and so far his dictionary did not contain the word “fear;” but he knew nothing of poetry or art, and only liked some kinds of music, amongst which, it is to be feared, “Soldiers of the Queen,” and the now much-abused chorus from “Faust,” ranked high in his estimation. He was just simply a healthy young Englishman, clean-limbed and clean-minded, with a tremendous appetite for pleasure, a magnificent frame, and a heart as light and buoyant as a cork; therefore, though an artist or a poet would have been thrilled to the marrow by the wild grandeur of the secluded valley and the grimly towering hills, and would have longed to put them on canvas or into verse, Stafford only felt suddenly grave, and as if it were playing it low down to throw an artificial fly, even of the best make, in such a spot.

But in a moment or two the sportsman’s instinct woke in him; a fish stirred in a pool under a boulder, and pulling himself together he threw a fly over the rise. As he did so, the brooding silence was broken by the deep musical bark of a collie, followed by the sharp yap, yap of a fox-terrier. The sudden sound almost startled Stafford; at any rate, caused him to miss his fish; he looked up with a little frown of annoyance, and saw on the break of the opposite hill some of the mountain sheep which had stared at him with haughty curiosity running down towards the green bottom of the valley followed by the two dogs.

A moment afterwards a horse and rider were silhouetted on the extreme top of the high hill. The horse was large whereby the rider looked small; and for a moment the pair were motionless, reminding Stafford of a bronze statue. The hill was fearfully steep, even the dogs ran with a certain amount of caution, and Stafford wondered whether the rider—he couldn’t see if it was man or boy—would venture down the almost precipitous slope. While he was wondering, the small figure on the horse sent up a cry that rang like the note of a bell and echoed in sweet shrillness down the hill and along the valley. The collie stopped as if shot, and the fox-terrier looked round, prepared to go back to the rider. It looked for a moment as if the rider were going down the other side of the hill again; then suddenly, as if he detected something wrong in the valley below, he turned the horse and came down the hill-side at a pace which made Stafford, hard and fearless rider as he was, open his eyes.

It seemed to him impossible that the horse could avoid a false step or a slip, and such a false step he knew would send steed and rider hurtling down to something that could be very little short of instant death. He forgot all about the big trout in the pool, and stood with his fly drifting aimlessly in the water, watching with something like breathless interest this, the most daring piece of horsemanship he had ever witnessed; and he had ridden side by side with the best steeplechaser of the day, and had watched a crack Hungarian cavalry corps at its manoeuvres; which last is about the top notch of the horse-riding business.

But the big horse did not falter for a moment; down it came at a hard gallop, and Stafford’s admiration was swallowed up in amazement when he saw that the rider was a young girl, that she was riding with about half an ounce on the reins, and that, apparently, she was as much at ease and unconscious of danger as if she were trotting on a tame hack in Rotten Row.

As she came nearer, admiration romped in ahead of amazement, for the girl was a young one—she looked like the average school-girl—and had one of the most beautiful faces Stafford had ever seen. She was dark, but the cheek that was swept by the long lashes was colourless with that exquisite and healthy pallor which one sees in the women of Northern Spain. Her hair was black but soft and silky, and the wind blew it in soft tendrils, now across her brow and now in dazzling strands about the soft felt hat which sat in graceful negligence upon the small and stately head. She wore a habit stained by use and weather, and so short that it was little better than a skirt, and left her almost as absolute a freedom as that enjoyed by the opposite sex. Her hands were covered by well-worn gauntlets, and she held a stout and workman-like crop with a long huntsman’s thong.

A poet would instantly have thought that it was a vision of the Spirit of the Mountains; Stafford only thought it was the most lovely piece of girlhood he had ever looked at. She did not see him for a moment, all her attention being engrossed by the sheep which were now wandering up the valley; then suddenly, as if she felt his presence rather than saw it, her dark eyes flashed round upon him and she pulled up the big horse on its haunches with a suddenness which ought to have sent her from the saddle like a stone from a catapult; but she sat back as firm as a rock and gazed at him steadily, with a calmness which fascinated Stafford and kept him staring back at her as if he were the veriest plough-boy.

And to put it frankly, it was something like fascination. She had come upon him so suddenly, her feat of horsemanship had been so audacious, her beauty was so marvellous that Stafford, perhaps for the first time in his life, found himself unable to utter a word in the presence of one of the opposite sex. It was only for a moment or two, of course, that he lost his presence of mind; then he pulled himself together and raised his cap. She gave him the very slightest of bows. It was the faintest indication only of response to his salute; her eyes rested on his face with a strange, ungirlish calm, then wandered to the last trout which lay on the bank.

Stafford felt that something had to be said, but for the life of him, for the first time in his experience, he couldn’t hit upon the thing to say. “Good-afternoon” seemed to him too banal, commonplace; and he could think of nothing else for a moment. However, it came at last.

“Will you be so good as to tell me if I am far from Carysford?” he asked.

“Four miles and three-quarters by the road, three miles over the hill,” she replied, slowly, as calmly as she had looked at him, and in a voice low and sweet, and with a ring, a tone, in it which in some indefinable way harmonised with her appearance. It was quite unlike the conventional girl’s voice; there rang in it the freedom of the lonely valley, the towering hills, the freedom and unconventionality of the girl’s own figure and face and wind-tossed hair; and in it was a note of dignity, of independence, and of a pride which was too proud for defiance. In its way the voice was as remarkable as the beauty of the face, the soft fire of the dark eyes.

“I had no idea it was so far,” said Stafford; “I must have wandered away from the place. I started fishing on the road down below, and haven’t noticed the distance. Will you tell me the name of this place?”

“Herondale,” she replied.

“Thank you,” said Stafford. “It’s a grand valley and a splendid stream.” She leant forward with her elbow on the saddle and her chin in the small gauntletted hand, looked up the valley absently and then back at him, with a frank speculation in her eyes which was too frank and calm to be flattering, and was, indeed, somewhat embarrassing.

“I suppose she takes me for a tourist, or a cheap tripper,” thought Stafford, with an uncomfortable kind of amusement; uncomfortable, because he knew that this girl who was acting as shepherd in an old weather-stained habit and a battered hat, was a lady.

She broke the silence again.

“Have you caught many fish?” she asked.

Up to now they had been separated by the stream; Stafford seized the opportunity, waded across in a fairly shallow place, and, opening the lid of his basket, showed her the contents.

“Yes, you have done fairly well,” she said; “but the trout run larger higher up the valley. By the way,” her brows came together slightly, though the very faintest of smiles for an instant curved the delicately cut lips, “do you know that you are poaching?”

This would have been a staggerer coming from a mere keeper, but from this exquisitely beautiful, this calm statue of a girl, it was simply devastating. Stafford stared at her.

“Doesn’t this river belong to Sir Joseph Avory?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, uncompromisingly. “Sir Joseph Avory’s river is called the Lesset water, and runs on the other side of that hill.”

She raised her hunting-crop and pointed with an exquisite movement, as graceful as that of a Diana, to the hill behind her.

“I am very sorry,” said Stafford. “I thought this was his river. I met him in London and got permission from him. Do you know to whom this water belongs?”

“To Mr. Heron, of Herondale,” she replied.

“I beg Mr. Heron’s pardon,” said Stafford. “Of course I’ll put up my rod at once; and I will take the first opportunity of apologising for my crime; for poaching is a crime, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she assented, laconically.

“Can you tell me where he lives—where his house is?”

She raised her whip again and pointed to an opening on the left of the valley, an opening lined on either side by a wild growth of magnificent firs.

“It is up there. You cannot see it from here,” she said. As she spoke, she took her chin from her hand and sat upright, gathered up her reins, and, with another of the faint inclinations of her head, by way of adieu, rode on up the valley.

Stafford stood with his cap in his hand looking after her for a moment, in a brown study; and, still watching the back of the slight figure that sat the big horse with the grace of an Indian maiden, he began to take down his rod, and, having packed it in his case and fastened his basket, he followed her along the broken bank of the stream. Presently, when she had gone some little distance, he heard the dogs start barking again, the crack of her whip rang like a pistol-shot, and her bell-like voice echoed amongst the hills, joined with the troubled baaing of the sheep. Stafford stopped and watched her: there was evidently something wrong; for the dogs had become excited, the sheep were running wildly; but the girl’s exquisite voice was as clear and calm as ever, and the big horse cantered over the broken ground, taking a big boulder now and again with lilting jump, as if he were going by his own volition and was well up in all the points of the game. After a time the dogs got the sheep into a heap, and the young girl rode round them; but something still seemed to be wrong, for she got down, and, leaving the horse quite free, made her way into the flock.

At that moment Stafford saw a sheep and a lamb break from the mob and make for the stream; the sheep jumped to a boulder with the agility of a goat, the lamb attempted to follow, but missed the boulder and fell into the stream. The water was wild here and the pools deep; and as the lamb was swept down toward Stafford he saw that it was struggling in an ineffectual way, and that it looked like a case of drowning.

Of course he went for it at once, and wading in made a grab at it; he got hold of it easily enough, but the lamb—a good sized one—struggled, and in the effort to retain his hold Stafford’s feet slipped and he went headfirst into a deep pool. He was submerged for a second only, and when he came up he had the satisfaction of feeling that he had still got the lamb; and gripping the struggling thing tightly in his arms, he made for the opposite bank. And looking up, saw the girl standing waiting for him, her face alive, alight, dancing with delight and amusement! The laughter shone in her eyes like dazzling sunlight and quivered on the firm but delicate lips. But it was only for a moment; before Stafford had fully taken it in and had responded to it with one of his own short laughs, her face was grave and calm again. “Thank you.” she said, with a gravity matching her face, and very much as one is thanked for passing the salt. “It would have drowned if you had not been there. It is lame and couldn’t swim. I saw, from the top of the hill, that it was lame, and I was afraid something would happen to it.”

As she spoke, she took the lamb, which was bleating like mad, laid it on the ground and holding it still, firmly but gently, with her knee, examined it with all the confidence and coolness of a vet.

“You’ll make yourself most frightfully wet,” said Stafford.

She glanced up at him with only faint surprise.

“You are a Londoner,” she said, “or you would know that here, in these parts, we are so often more wet than dry that it makes no matter. Yes, I thought so; there was a thorn in its foot. May I trouble you to hold him a minute?”

Stafford held the lamb, which was tolerably quiet now; and she slowly took off her gauntlets, produced a little leather wallet from the saddle—the horse coming at her call as if he were a dog—took out a serviceable pair of tweezers, and, with professional neatness, extracted an extremely ugly thorn. Stafford stood and watched her; the collie and the fox-terrier upright on their haunches watching her also; the collie gave an approving bark as, with a pat she liberated the lamb, which went bleating on its way to join its distracted mother, the fox-terrier leapt round her with yaps of excited admiration; and there was admiration in Stafford’s eyes also. The whole thing had been done with a calm, almost savage grace and self-possession, and she seemed to be absolutely unconscious of his presence, and only remembered it when the lamb and its mother had joined the flock.

“Thank you again,” she said. “It was very kind of you. I am afraid you are wet.”

As Stafford had gone completely under the water, this was a fact he could not deny, but he said with a laugh:

“Though I am a Londoner, in a sense, I don’t mind a wetting—in a good cause; and I shall be dry, or as good as dry, before I get to the inn. You must have eyes like a hawk to have seen, from the top of the hill, that that lamb was lame,” he added, rather with the desire to keep her than to express his admiration for her sight.

“I have good eyes,” she said, indifferently. “One has to have. But I saw that the lamb was lame from the way it kept beside its mother and the fuss she made over it: and I knew, too, by Donald’s bark, that something was wrong. I am sorry you are wet. Will you—” She glanced towards the opening in the hills, paused, and for the first time seemed slightly embarrassed; Stafford fancied that a faint touch of colour came to the clear pallor of the lovely young face. She did not finish the sentence, but with another “Thank you,” and “I should not have liked to have lost the lamb,” went towards her horse.

Stafford advanced to put her in the saddle; but, with a little shake of the head and a “Don’t trouble,” she sprang into her place and rode off.

Stafford looked after her, as he had done before; then he said, “Well,
I’m d——-d!”

He felt for his pouch, filled his pipe and lit it, and in doing so his eyes fell upon the little wallet from which she had taken her tweezers. He picked it up and quickly shouted to her; but the dogs were barking with furious delight, she was cracking her whip, and she had ridden too far for her to hear him through the noise. It would have been sheer folly to have run after her; so, with a shrug of his shoulders, Stafford put the little wallet in his pocket, waded the stream and, after a moment or two of consideration, made for the inn by the nearest way, to wit, across the hill.

The girl rode along the strip of level moorland beside the river until she came to a narrow and not particularly well—kept road which led through the opening of the hills towards which she had motioned her whip. Once or twice a smile crossed her face, and once she laughed as she thought of the comical picture which the young man had made as he struggled to dry land with the wet lamb in his arms; and the smile and her laugh made her face seem strangely girlish, because it was usually so calm, so gravely self-reliant. Some girls would have been quick to detect the romantic side of the incident, and would have dwelt with a certain sense of satisfaction upon the fact that the young man was tall and handsome and distinguished looking. But this girl had scarcely noticed it; at any rate, it had not affected her in any way. She had too much to do; there was too much upon her well-formed and graceful shoulders to permit her to indulge in romance: Diana herself was not more free from sentiment than this young girl who rode her horse just like a Mexican, who was vet enough to perform a surgical operation on a lamb, and who knew how many bushels of wheat should run to an acre, and the best dressing for permanent pastures. It did occur to her that she might, at any rate after he had rescued the lamb, have given him permission to go on fishing; but she was not very sorry for having failed to do so, for after all, he had been poaching, and, as she had said, poaching was in her eyes a crime.

She went down the road at a swift trot, and presently it was blocked by a pair of wrought-iron gates, so exquisite in their antique conscientiousness that many a mushroom peer would have given almost their weight in gold to place them at the beginning of his newly made park; but no one came to open them, they were closed by a heavily padlocked chain, and the lodge beside them was empty and dilapidated; and the girl rode beside the lichen-covered wall in which they stood until she came to an opening leading to an old arch which faced a broad and spacious court-yard. As she rode beneath the arch a number of dogs yelped a welcome from kennels or behind stable half-doors, and a bent old man, dressed like something between a stableman and a butler, came forward, touching his forehead, to take her horse. She slipped from the saddle, patted the horse, and murmured a word or two of endearment; but her bright eyes flashed round the court-yard with a glance of responsibility.

“Have you brought the colt in, Jason?” she asked.

Jason touched his forehead again.

“Yes, Miss Ida. It took me three-quarters of an hour; it won’t come to me like it does to you. It’s in a loose stall.”

“Saddle it to-morrow morning,” she said, “and I will come and try it. The brindle cow has got into the corn, and the fence wants mending down by the pool; you must get William to help you, and do it at once. He has taken the steers to market, I suppose? I didn’t see them in the three acre. Oh, and, Jason, I found someone fishing in the dale; you must get a notice board and put it up where the road runs near the river; the tourists’ time is coming on, and though they don’t often come this side of the lake, some of them may, and we can’t afford to have the river poached. And, Jason, look to Ruppert’s off-hind shoe; I think it’s loose; and—” She stopped with a short laugh. “But that’s enough for one time, isn’t it? Oh, Jason, if I were only a man, how much better it would be!”

“Yes, miss,” assented Jason, simply, with another touch of his forehead.

She sighed and laughed again, and gathering up her habit—she hadn’t to raise it much—she went through an open door-way into a wild, but pretty garden, and so to the back of one of the most picturesque houses in this land of the picturesque. It was built of grey stone which age had coloured with a tender and an appreciative hand; a rich growth of ivy and clematis clung lovingly over a greater portion of it so that the mullioned windows were framed by the dark leaves and the purple flower. The house was long and rambling and had once been flourishing and important, but it was now eloquent of decay and pathetic with the signs of “better times” that had vanished long ago. A flight of worn steps led to a broad glass door, and opening the latter, the girl passed under a curved wooden gallery into a broad hall. It was dimly lit by an oriel window of stained glass, over which the ivy and clematis had been allowed to fall; there was that faint odour which emanates from old wood and leather and damask; the furniture was antique and of the neutral tint which comes from age; the weapons and the ornaments of brass, the gilding of the great pictures, were all dim and lack-lustre for want of the cleaning and polishing which require many servants. In the huge fire-place some big logs were burning, and Donald and Bess threw themselves down before it with a sigh of satisfaction. The girl looked round her, just as she had looked round the stable-yard; then, tossing her soft hat and whip on the old oak table, she went to one of the large heavy doors, and knocking, said in her clear voice:

“Father, are you there?”

Inside the room an old man sat at a table. It was littered with books, some of them open as if he had been consulting them; but before him lay an open deed, and at his elbow were several others lying on an open deed-box. He was thin and as faded-looking and as worn with age as the house and the room, lined with dusty volumes and yellow, surface-cracked maps and pictures. He wore a long dressing-gown which was huddled round him as if he were cold, though a fire of logs almost as large as the one in the hall was burning in the open fire-place.

At the sound of the knock he raised his head, an expression, which was a mixture of fear and senile cunning came into his lined and pallid face, his dull eyes peered from under their lids with a flash of sudden alertness, and with one motion of his long hands he hurriedly folded the deed before him, crammed it, with the others, into the box, locked it with a hurried and trembling hand, and placed it in a cupboard, which he also locked; then he drew one of the large books into the place were the deed had been, and with a cautious glance round the room, shuffled to the door, and opened it.

As the girl entered, one would have noticed the resemblance between her and the old man, and have seen that they were father and daughter; for Godfrey Heron had been one of the handsomest men of his time, and though she had got her dark eyes and the firm, delicate lips from her mother, the clear oval of her face and its expression of aristocratic pride had come from the Herons.

“Are you here still, father?” she said. “It is nearly dinner-time, and you are not dressed. You promised me that you would go out: how wicked of you not to have done so!”

He shuffled back to the table and made a great business of closing the book.

“I’ve been busy—reading, Ida,” he said. “I did not know it was so late. You have been out, I see; I hope you have enjoyed your ride. Have you met anyone?”

“No,” she replied; then she smiled, as she added: “Only a poacher.”

The old man raised his head, a faint flush came on his face and his eyes flashed with haughty resentment.

“A poacher! What are the keepers about! Ah, I forgot; there are no keepers now; any vagrant is free to trespass and poach on Herondale!”

“I’m sorry, father!” she said, laying her hand on his arm soothingly.
“It was not an ordinary poacher, only a gentleman who had mistaken the
Heron water for the Avory’s. Come now, father, you have barely time to
dress.”

“Yes, yes, I will come in a moment—a moment,” he said.

But after she had left the room, he still lingered, and when at last he got to the door, he closed it and went back to the cupboard and tried it, to see if it were locked, muttering, suspiciously:

“Did she hear me? She might have heard the rustle of the parchment, the turn of the lock. Sometimes I think she suspects—But, no, no, she’s a child still, and she’d say something, speak out. No, no; it’s all right. Yes, yes, I’m coming, Ida!” he said aloud, as the girl called to him on her way up the stairs.

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