Stafford looked at it with admiration mingled with pity. In the light
of the story the landlord had told him he realised the full pathos of
its antique grandeur. It was not a ruin by any means: but it was grim
with the air of neglect, of desolation, of solitude. In two only, of
the many windows, was there any light; there was no sound of life about
the vast place; and the moonlight showed up with cruel distinctness the
ravages made in stone-work and wood-work by the clawlike hand of Time.
A capital of one of the pillars of the still handsome portico had
crumbled, several of the pillars were broken and askew; the great door
was blistered and cracked by the sun; evidently no paint had touched
the place for years. The stone balustrade of the broad terrace had
several gaps in it, and the coping and the pillars were lying where
they had fallen; the steps of the terrace had grass growing in the
interstices of the stones; one of the lions which had flanked the steps
had disappeared, and the remaining one was short of a front leg. The
grass on the lawn was long and unkempt, the flower beds weedy and
straggly, and the flowers themselves growing wild and untrained.
But for the smoke which ascended from two or three of the many chimneys
the place might well have seemed deserted and uninhabited, and Stafford
with this feeling upon him stood and gazed at the place unrestrainedly.
It was difficult for him to realise that only a few hours ago he had
left London, that only last night he had dined at his club and gone to
the big Merrivale dance; it was as if he were standing in some scene of
the middle ages; he would not have been greatly surprised if the
grass-grown terrace had suddenly become crowded by old-world forms in
patches and powder, hoops and ruffles.
"Good Lord, what would some of the people I know give to belong to--to
own this place!" he said to himself. "To think of that girl living
alone here with her father!"
He was turning away when he heard a slight sound, the great door opened
slowly, and "that girl" came out on to the terrace. She stood for a
moment on the great marble door sill, then she crossed the terrace, and
leaning on the balustrade, looked dreamily at the moonlit view which
lay before her. She could not see Stafford's tall figure, which was
concealed by the shadow of one of the trees; and she thought herself
alone, as usual. Her solitude did not sadden her, she was accustomed to
it; and presently, as if moved by the exquisite beauty of the night,
her lips parted and she half sang, half hummed the jewel song from
"Faust." She had looked beautiful enough in her old riding-habit and
hat, but she seemed a vision of loveliness as she stood in the
moonlight with the old house for a background. There was something
bewitchingly virginal in the rapt and dreamy face with its dark eyes
and long lashes, in the soft, delicately cut lips, the pure ivory
pallor; at the same time something equally bewitching in the modernness
of her dress, which was of soft cream cashmere, made rather long and in
accord with the present fashion; she had placed a rose in the bosom of
her dress and it stood out redly, richly from the soft cream. Her hair
was no longer rough and touzled by the wind, but brushed in rippling
smoothness and coiled in dainty neatness in the nape of her graceful
neck. No wonder Stafford caught his breath, held it, as it were, as he
gazed at the exquisite picture, which formed so striking a contrast to
her surroundings.
She leant her chin on her hand and looked before her as she sung
softly; and at that moment her thoughts strayed from the question of
what she should do to keep the cows from the lawn, to the young man who
had rescued her lamb for her. She did not think of him with anything
like interest or curiosity, but she was recalling the ludicrous picture
he made as he struggled to the bank with the lamb in his arms, and a
faint smile crossed her face. At this moment Donald and Bess strolled
out to join her. They would much have preferred to have remained
roasting themselves in front of the Hall fire, but, ridiculous as it
was for their mistress to leave the warm house for the comparatively
cold terrace, they felt themselves in duty bound to join her.
Perhaps they might catch sight of a rabbit to repay them for
their exertions. Donald walked with stately steps toward his
mistress, and Bess was following, with a shiver of reluctance
and a backward glance towards the fire-light which shone through
the open door, when suddenly she sniffed the presence of a
stranger, and, with a sharp yap, hurled herself down the broad steps
and towards the spot where Stafford still stood. Donald, with a loud
bay, followed with his long stride, and Ida, startled from her reverie,
followed as far as the top of the steps, and waited.
"I might have expected the faithful watch-dog," said Stafford to
himself. "Now, what on earth am I to do? I suppose they'll spring on
me--the collie, at any rate. It's no use running; I've got to stop and
face it. What a confounded nuisance! But it serves me right.
I've no business to be loafing about the place."
As the dogs came up, he put on that air of conciliation which we all
know, and murmuring "Good dog! All right, old chap!" tried to pacify
Donald and Bess. But they were not accustomed to intruders, especially
at that time of night, and they were legitimately furious. Dancing
round him, and displaying dazzling teeth threateningly, they drew
nearer and nearer, and they would certainly have sprung upon him; but
the girl came, not running, but quickly, down the steps and straight
across the dewy grass towards them, calling to the dogs as she came in
her clear, low voice, which had not a trace of fear in it. Their loud
barking changed to sullen growls as she approached; and, motioning them
to be still, she stopped and gazed at Stafford, who stepped out into
the moonlight.
She said not a word, but, as she recognised him, a faint colour came
into the ivory pallor of her cheek and an expression of surprise in the
dark, fearless eyes.
Stafford raised his cap.
"I am very sorry!" he said. "I am afraid you must think me a great
nuisance; this is the second time I have been guilty of trespass."
She was silent for a moment, not with shyness, but as if she were
noticing the change in his dress, and wondering how he came to be in
evening-clothes, and where he had come from. The expression was one of
simple girlish curiosity, which softened in a delicious way the general
pride and hauteur of her face.
"You are not trespassing," she said, and the voice sounded very sweet
and musical after the din of the dogs. "There is public right of way
along this road."
"I am immensely relieved," said Stafford. "It looks so unfrequented,
that I was afraid it was private, and that I had made another blunder;
all the same, I am very sorry that I should have disturbed you and made
the dogs kick up such a row. I would have gone on or gone back if I had
known you were coming out; but the place looked so quiet--"
"It does not matter," she said; "they bark at the slightest noise, and
we are used to it. The place is so quiet because only my father and I
live here, and there are only a few servants, and the place is so big."
All this was said not repiningly, but softly and a little dreamily. By
this time Donald and Bess had recovered their tempers, and after a
close inspection of the intruder had come to the conclusion that he was
of the right sort, and Donald was sitting close on his launches beside
Stafford, and thrusting his nose against Stafford's hand invitingly.
The girl's beauty seemed to Stafford almost bewildering, and yet softly
and sweetly a part of the beauty of the night; he was conscious of a
fear, that was actually a dread, that she would bow, call the dogs and
leave him; so, before she could do so, he made haste to say:
"Now I am here, will you allow me to apologise for my trespass of this
afternoon?"
She inclined her head slightly.
"It does not matter," she said; "you were very kind in helping me with
the lamb; and I ought to have told you that my father would be very
glad if you would fish in the Heron; you will find some better trout
higher up the valley."
"Thank you very much," said Stafford.
Calling the dogs, she turned away; then, fortunately, Stafford
remembered the case of instruments.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" he said; "I forgot this wallet. I found it by
the stream after you had gone."
"Oh, my wallet!" she cried. "I am so glad you have found it. I don't
know what I should have done if you had not; I should have had to send
to Preston or to London; and, besides, it was a present from the old
veterinary surgeon; he left it to me. There were some beautiful
instruments in it."
Still smiling, she opened it, as if to show him. Stafford drew near, so
near as to become conscious of the perfume of the rose in her bosom, of
the still fainter but more exquisite perfume of her hair. He bent over
the case in silence, and while they were looking a cloud sailed across
the moon.
The sudden disappearance of the light roused her, as it were, to a
sense of his presence.
"Thank you for bringing it to me," she said; "it was very good of you."
"Oh, I hadn't to bring it far," said Stafford. "I am staying at The
Woodman Inn, at Carysford."
"Oh," she said; "you are a tourist--you are fishing?"
Stafford could not bring himself to say that he was the son of the man
who had built the great white house, which, no doubt, her father and
she resented.
"You have a very beautiful place here," he said, after a pause.
She turned and looked at the house in the dim light, with a touch of
pride in her dreamy eyes.
"Yes," she said, as if it were useless to deny the fact.
"It is very old, and I am very fond--"
She stopped suddenly, her lips apart, her eyes fixed on the farther end
of the terrace; for while she had been speaking a figure, only just
perceptible in the semi-darkness, had moved slowly across the end of
the terrace, paused for a moment at the head of the flight of steps,
and then slowly descended.
Stafford also saw it, and glancing at her he saw that she was startled,
if not frightened. She scarcely seemed to breathe, and she turned her
large, dark eyes upon him questioningly, somewhat appealingly.
"What is that?" she said, in a whisper, more to herself than to him.
"Someone--a man has gone down the steps from the house," he said.
"Don't you know who it is?"
"No," she replied in as low a voice. "It is not Jason--there is no one
else--who can it be? I will go and see."
She moved towards the terrace, and Stafford said:
"I will come with you; you will let me?"
She did not refuse; indeed, she appeared to have forgotten his
presence: together they crossed the lawn and reached the corner of the
house near which the figure had disappeared. It struck Stafford as
strange that the dogs did not bark. In profound silence they went in
the direction the figure had taken, and Stafford presently saw a ruined
building, which had evidently been a chapel. As they approached it the
figure came out of it and towards them. As it passed them, so close
that they instinctively drew back, Stafford saw that it was an old man
in a dressing-gown; his head was bare, his hair touched the collar of
the gown. His eyes were wide open, and gazing straight in front of him.
Stafford was about to step forward and arrest his progress, when
suddenly the girl's hand seized his and gripped it.
"Hush!" she whispered, with subdued terror. "It is my father. He--yes,
he is asleep! Oh, see, he is asleep! He will fall--hurt himself--"
She, in her turn, was about to spring forward, but Stafford caught her
arm.
"No, no, you must not!" he said, in a hurried whisper. "I think it
would be dangerous. I think he is all right if you let him alone. He is
walking in his sleep. Don't speak--don't cry out."
"No, no," she breathed. "But it is dreadful."
Instinctively, unconsciously, she drew closer to Stafford, almost clung
to him, watching her father over her shoulder until the figure, with
its ghastly, mechanical movement and vacant stare, had passed into the
house; then, with a long breath, and with her hands clasping her
throat, as if she were stifling, she broke from Stafford and sprang
quickly and noiselessly up the steps and disappeared also. Wondering
whether he was awake or dreaming, Stafford waited for over an hour to
see if she would appear again; and he was turning away at last, when
her figure appeared in the open door-way, like that of a wraith. She
waved her hand to him, then disappeared, and the door closed.
Still asking himself if he were not in a land of dreams, but tingling
with the touch of her small hand, with the haunting perfume of the soft
black hair, Stafford gained the road and walked towards the inn.