"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.