Ida had followed her father across the terrace, across the hall, lit
weirdly by the glow of the sinking fire and the pale moonlight, up the
broad stairs, along the corridor to the open door of his room. He had
walked slowly but steadily with his usual gait, and his head bent
slightly; though his eyes were wide open, he seemed to see nothing, yet
he did not stumble or even hesitate. Ida followed behind him with
absolute noiselessness. They were both ghostlike in their movements,
and the dogs stood and watched them intently, ears erect, and with that
gravity in their eyes which dogs wear when they are puzzled.
The old man closed his door softly, still without any hesitation, and
Ida, grasping the broad rail of the staircase, waited breathlessly. She
heard him moving about, as leisurely and precisely as before; then all
was still. She stole to the door and opened it; the light was streaming
into the room and fell athwart the bed in which he was lying, his eyes
closed, his face calm and peaceful; she went on tiptoe to the bed and
bent over him, and found that he was in a deep, profound sleep. With a
long breath of relief, she left him, and sat on the stairs and waited;
for it was just possible that he might rise again and resume the
dreadful walk--that motion of death in life.
She waited for an hour, so absorbed in her anxiety that she did not
remember the man she had left outside. After another quarter of an hour
she went to her father's room, and found that he was still sleeping.
Then she remembered Stafford, remembered him with a start of discomfort
and embarrassment. Was he waiting there still? She went down-stairs,
and from the open door-way she saw dimly his figure under the trees.
There was something in the attitude of the erect figure that reminded
her of a soldier on guard, a sentinel standing faithful at his post;
and when she had waved her hand in dismissal she did not quite close
the door, but watched him through the narrow opening as he paced slowly
down the road, looking back at the house now and again as if to see if
she wanted him.
Then she closed the door, signed to the dogs to be down before the
fire, and went up to her room, after pausing beside her father's door
and listening to his regular breathing. Her room was a large
one--nearly all the rooms in the place were large; and as she undressed
herself slowly she looked round it with a novel sense of loneliness.
The tall shadows of her graceful yet girlish figure were cast
grotesquely on the wall by the candles beside her glass. She had never
felt lonely before, though her life ever since she had arrived at the
Hall might be called one almost of solitude.
She had been so absorbed in the duties which had so suddenly fallen
upon her young shoulders that there had been no time in which to feel
the want of companionship. There had always been something to think of,
something to do; her father demanded so much attention; the house, the
land, the farm--she had to look after them all; there had not been time
to think even of herself; and it had never occurred to her that she was
leading a life so different to that led by most girls. But to-night the
silence of the great house, large enough to hold fifty people, but
sheltering only five persons--her father and herself and the three
servants--weighed upon her.
That sense of loneliness had come upon her suddenly as she had watched
the young man's retreating figure. She could not help thinking of him
even when her mind was oppressed with anxiety on her father's account.
In a vague way she remembered how kind this stranger had been; how
quietly, and with what an air of protection, he had stood by her and
restrained her from crying out and alarming her father. As vaguely, she
remembered that in the moment of her terror she had clung to him, had
forgotten under the great strain that he was a stranger--and a man.
Even now she did not know his name, knew nothing of him except that he
was staying at The Woodman Inn.
Kind and considerate as he had been she thought of him with something
like resentment; it was as if he had stepped into her life, had
intruded upon its quiet uneventfulness. He had no right to be there, no
right, to have seen her father in that terrible condition, that death
in life. And she had behaved like a frightened servant-maid; had not
only clung to him--had she clung to him, or was it only fancy?--but had
left him without a word of thanks, had allowed him to wait there, and
then had waved her hand to him just as she had seen Jessie, the maid,
wave her hand to her "young man" after they had parted, and she was
going into the house.
She bit her lip softly and a faint flush rose to the clear pallor of
the lovely, girlish face reflected in the glass. Yes, she had behaved
just like a servant-maid, she who in her heart of hearts knew that she
prided herself upon her dignity and the good manners which should
belong to a Heron of Herondale. It was characteristic of her that while
she thought of his conduct and what she considered her bad behaviour,
she gave no thought to the fact that the stranger who had so "intruded"
was singularly handsome and possessed of that strange quality which at
once impresses women. Most girls would have remembered the fact, but
Ida was different to the general run of her sex. She had been brought
up in an out-of-the-way place in which the modern novel, the
fashionable pastime of flirtation, were not known; and her secluded
life in the lonely dale had deepened that sense of aloofness from the
world, that indifference to the sentiment which lurks in most girls'
bosoms. This tall, handsome man who had stepped into her life and
shared the secret of her father's strange affliction, weakness, was
nothing more to her than one of the other tourists whom she sometimes
chanced to see on her lonely rides and walks.
When she had undressed she went again to her father's door and listened
to his deep and regular breathing; then, at last, she went to bed; but
the sense of loneliness was so intense that she lay awake for hours
thinking of that bent figure walking in its sleep from the shadows of
the ruined chapel. For the future she would have to watch her father
closely, would perhaps have to lock the door of his room. Why had he
gone to the chapel? So far as she knew he was not in the habit of going
there; indeed, she did not remember having seen him go there in his
waking moments. She knew nothing of somnambulism; but she imagined that
he had gone in that direction by mere chance, that if he had happened
to find any impediment in his way he might as easily have gone in
another direction.
She fell asleep at last and slept an hour beyond her usual time, and so
deeply that Jessie had filled the cold bath without waking her beloved
young mistress. Ida dressed quickly, all the incidents of the preceding
night rushing through her mind, and hurried to her father's room; the
door was open, the room empty, and, with a sudden fear, she ran down
the stairs and found him in his usual seat in the library. She drew a
long breath and went and kissed him, wishing him good-morning as
casually as she could.
"You are up early this morning, father," she said, trying to keep her
tone free from any anxiety.
He glanced at the clock calmly.
"No, you are later," he said.
His eyes met hers with their usual expression of absentminded serenity.
"I--I was a little tired and overslept myself," she said. "Are--are you
quite well this morning, father?"
"Yes, quite well. Why not?" he replied, with slight surprise.
She drew a breath of relief: it was quite evident that he knew nothing
of that weird walk, and that it had not affected him injuriously.
"Nothing," she said, forcing a smile.
As she spoke, Jason, in his in-door livery, which, in some strange way,
looked as if it had shrunken with the figure which had worn it so
long, came to the door, and in his husky voice said that breakfast was
ready; and Ida, taking her father's arm, led him into the dining-room
in which all their meals were served.
As she went to her place she glanced through the window, from which she
could see the steps at the corner of the terrace and a small part of
the ruined chapel, and she shuddered.
When she had poured out her father's coffee, she took it round to him
and let her hand rest on his shoulder lovingly; but Jason had brought
in the post-bag and Mr. Heron was unlocking it and taking out the few
letters and papers, and seemed unconscious of the little anxious
caress.
"Are there any for me, father?" she asked, lingering beside him, and
she stretched out her hand to turn the envelopes on their right side;
but he stopped her quickly and swept them together, covering them with
his long hand--the shapely Heron hand.
"No, no," he said, almost sharply; "they are all for me; they are
business letters, booksellers' catalogues, sale catalogues--nothing of
importance."
She went back to her place and he waited until she had done so before
he began to open the letters. He merely glanced at some of them, but
presently he came to one which, after a sharp, quick look at her, he
read attentively; then he returned it to its envelope and, with a
secretive movement, slipped it into the pocket of his dressing-gown.
"Yes, nothing but catalogues and bills; you'd better take them, Ida;
the bills, at any rate."
And he threw them across to her.
When she had first come home to be mistress of the Hall the bills had
overwhelmed her; they had been so many and the money to meet them had
been so inadequate; but she had soon learnt how to "finance" them, and
come to know which account must be paid at once, and which might be
allowed to stand over.
She took them now and glanced at them, and the old man watched her
covertly, with a curious expression on his face.
"I'm sure I don't know how you will pay them," he said, as if she alone
were responsible.
"I can't pay all of them at once," she replied, cheerfully. "But I can
some, and the rest must wait. I can send four--perhaps five--of the
steers to the monthly market, and then there are the sheep--Oh, father,
I did not tell; you about the gentleman I saw fishing in the dale--"
She stopped, for she saw that he was not listening. He had opened a
local paper and was reading it intently, and presently he looked up
with an eager flush on his face and a sudden lightening of the dull
eyes.
"Have you seen this--this house--they call it a palace--which that man
has built on the lake side?" he asked, his thin voice quavering with
resentment.
"Do you mean the big white house by Brae Wood?"
"Yes. Judging by the description of it here, it must be a kind of
gim-crack villa like those one sees in Italy, built by men resembling
this--this _parvenu_."
"It is a large place," said Ida; "but I don't think it is gim-crack,
father. It looks very solid though it is white and, yes, Continental.
It is something between a tremendous villa and a palace. Why are you so
angry? I know you don't like to have new houses built in Bryndermere;
but this is some distance from us--we cannot see it from here, or from
any part of the grounds, excepting the piece by the lake."
"It is built on our land," he said, more quietly, but with the flush
still on his face, the angry light in his eyes. "It was bought by
fraud, obtained under false pretences. I sold it to one of the farmers,
thinking he wanted it and would only use it for grazing. I did not know
until the deeds were signed that he was only the jackal for this other
man."
"What other man, father?"
"This Stephen Orme. He's _Sir_ Stephen Orme now. They knighted him.
They knight every successful tradesman and schemer; and this man is a
prince of his tribe; a low-born adventurer, a _parvenu_ of the worst
type."
"I think I have read something about him in the newspapers," said Ida,
thoughtfully.
Mr. Heron emitted a low snarl.
"No doubt; he is one whom the world delights to honour; it bows before
the successful charlatan, and cringes to his ill-gotten wealth. I'm
told that such a man is received, yes, and welcomed by society.
Society! The word is a misnomer. In my time a man of that class was
kept at arm's-length, was relegated to his proper place--the back hall;
but now"--he gazed angrily at the paper--"here is a whole column
describing Sir Stephen Orme's new 'palatial villa,' and giving an
account of his achievements, the success of his great undertakings. And
this man has chosen to build his eyesore on Heron lands, within sight
of the house which--which he would not have been permitted to enter. If
I had known, I would not have sold the land."
"But you wanted the money, father," she said, gently.
He looked at her swiftly, and a change came over his face, a look of
caution, almost of cunning.
"Eh? Yes, yes, of course I wanted it. But he knew I should not have
sold it for building on; that is why he got Bowden, the farmer, to buy
it. It was like him: only such a man can be capable of such an
underhand act. And now I suppose he will be welcomed by his neighbours,
and the Vaynes and the Bannerdales, and made much of. They'll eat his
dinners, and their women will go to his balls and concerts--they whose
fathers would have refused to sit at the same table with him. But there
is one house at which he will not be welcome; one man who will not
acknowledge him, who will not cross the threshold of Sir Stephen Orme's
brand-new palace, or invite him to enter his own. He shall not darken
the doors of Heron Hall."
He rose as he spoke and left the room with a quicker step than usual.
But half an hour later when Ida went into the library she found him
absorbed in his books as usual, and he only glanced up at her with
absent, unseeing eyes, as she stood beside him putting on her gloves,
her habit skirt caught up under her elbow, the old felt hat just a
little askew on the soft, silky hair.
"Do you want anything before I go out, father?" she asked.
"No, no!" he replied abstractedly, and bending over his book again as
he answered. Ida crossed the hall in the sunlight, which lit up her
beauty and made it seem a more striking contrast than usual to the dull
and grim surroundings of the dark oak, the faded hangings and the
lack-lustre armour, and Donald and Bess bounded, barking, before her
down the terrace at which Jason was holding the big chestnut. The horse
pricked up its ears and turned its head for her morning caress, the
touch of the small, soft, but firm hand which it had come to regard as
its due, and Ida sprang lightly from the last step into the saddle. It
was an informal way of mounting which few girls could have accomplished
gracefully; but Ida did it as naturally and as easily as a circus
rider, for the trick was a necessity to her who had so often to
dismount and mount alone.
The lovely face was rather grave and thoughtful for some time after she
had started, for the remembrance of last night weighed upon her, and
her father's unusual display of anger at breakfast troubled her
vaguely; but, presently, after she had cleared a hedge and one of the
broken rails, her spirits rose: the sky was so blue, the sun so bright;
it was hard to be depressed on such a morning.
She rode to a distant part of the dale where, in a rough meadow the
steers were grazing; she surveyed them critically, chose those that
should go to market, then turned, and leaping a bank, gained an
ill-kept road. A little farther on she came to an opening on the verge
of the lake, and she pulled up, arrested by the great white house on
the other side, which was literally glittering in the brilliant
sunlight. It certainly did not detract from the beauty of the view; in
fact, it made the English lake look, for the moment, like an Italian
one.
She regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, then returned to the road,
and as she did so she saw a tall figure coming towards her.
For an instant the colour rose to her face, but for an instant only,
and before Stafford had reached her, she was as pale, as calm as usual.
She noticed that he was dressed in a serge suit, noticed vaguely how
well it sat upon him, that his gait had a peculiar ease and grace which
the men of the dale lacked, that his handsome face flushed lightly as
he saw her; but she gave no sign of these quick apprehensions, and sat
cold and sphinx-like waiting for him.
Strafford's heart leapt at sight of her with a sudden pleasure which
puzzled him; for he would not have admitted to himself that he had
walked in this direction in the hope, on the chance, of meeting her.
"Good-morning," he said, in his direct fashion, raising his cap. "I am
very fortunate to meet you. I hope Mr. Heron is no worse for--is not
ill?"
"No," she said in her low, clear voice. "My father is quite well; he is
just as he usually is this morning."
"I am very glad," said Stafford. He stood close beside the horse and
looked up at her; and for the first time in his life he was trying to
keep the expression of admiration out of his eyes; the expression which
he knew most women welcomed, but which, somehow or other, he felt this
strange girl would resent. "I was afraid he would be upset. I am afraid
you were frightened last night--it was enough to alarm, to startle
anyone. What a splendid morning!" he went on, quickly, as if he did not
want to remind her of the affair. "What a libel it is to say that it is
always raining here! I've never seen so brilliant a sunshine or such
colours: don't wonder that the artists rave about the place and are
never tired of painting it."
She waited until he had finished, her eyes downcast, as if she knew why
he had turned from the subject, then she raised them and looked at him
with her direct gaze.
"I am glad I have met you," she said. "I wanted to thank you for your
kindness last night--"
"Oh, but--" Stafford tried to break in, but she went on slowly, as if
he had not spoken.
--"I was--frightened: it was sudden, so unexpected. My father had never
done it before--that I know of--and he looked"--her voice broke for a
moment--"so strange, so ghost-like. I thought at first that it was the
Heron ghost which, they say, haunts the dale, though I have never seen
it."
A faint smile curved her lips and shone in her eyes, and Stafford was
so fascinated by the sudden gleam of girlishness that he had to bend
and pat Bess, who was planting dusty impression on his trousers in her
frantic efforts to gain his attention.
"I did nothing; in fact, as I walked away I was fuming because I
couldn't help you--couldn't do more."
"You did help me," she said, gravely; then she looked across the lake
to Sir Stephen's "little place." "I was admiring that new house. Don't
you think it is very beautiful, rising so white and gracefully above
the lake?"
"Ye-es," said Stafford, "Rather--conspicuous, though, isn't it?"
She laughed suddenly, and Stafford asked, with surprise: "Why did you
laugh?"
"Oh, I was thinking of my father," she said, with a delicious
frankness; "he was quite angry about it this morning. It seems that it
is built on our land--or what was ours--and he dislikes the idea of
anyone building at Bryndermere."
"So should I," said Stafford, laconically.
"And besides," she went on, her eyes fixed on the great white building,
so that she did not see his embarrassment, "my father does not like the
man who built it. He thinks that he got the land unfairly; and he--my
father--calls him all sorts of hard names."
Stafford bit his lips, and his face wore the expression which came into
it when he was facing an ugly jump. He would have shirked this one if
he could, but it had to be faced, so he rushed it.
"I'm sorry," he said. "My father built it."
She did not start, but she turned her head and looked at him, with a
sudden coldness in the glorious eyes.
"Your father--Sir Stephen Orme? Then you are--"
"I am his son, yes; my name is Stafford Orme."
She gathered her reins up, as if no comment, no remark were necessary,
but Stafford could not let her go, could not part from her like that.
"I'm sorry to hear that Mr. Heron has some cause of complaint, some
grievance against my father. I can understand his not liking the house;
to tell you the truth, I don't care for it much myself. Yes; I can
understand Mr. Heron's annoyance; I suppose he can see it from your
house?"
"No," she said, simply. "This is the only part of our land from which
it can be seen, and my father never comes here: never leaves the
grounds, the garden." She paused a moment. "I don't know why you should
mind--except that I said that the land was got unfairly--I wish I had
not said that."
Stafford coloured.
"So do I," he said; "but I hope it isn't true. There may be some
mistake. I don't know anything about my father's affairs--I haven't
seen him for years; I am almost a stranger to him."
She listened with a grave face, then she touched the big chestnut; but
Stafford, almost unconsciously, laid his hand on the rein nearest him.
His mouth and chin expressed the determination which now and again
surprised even his most intimate friends.
"Miss Heron, I'm afraid--" He paused, and she waited, her eyes downcast
and fixed on the horse's ears.
"I scarcely know how to put what I want to say," he said. "I'm rather
bad at explaining myself; but I--well, I hope you won't feel angry with
me because of the house, because of anything that has passed between
your father and mine--Of course I stand by him; but--well, _I_ didn't
build the confounded place--I beg your pardon! but I think it's rather
hard that you should cut me--oh, I can see by your face that you mean
to do it!--that you should regard me as a kind of enemy because--"
The usually fluent Stafford stopped helplessly as the beautiful eyes
turned slowly upon him with a slight look of wonder in them.
"Why should you mind?" she said, with almost childish innocence. "You
do not know me; we only met yesterday--we are not friends--Oh I am not
forgetting your kindness last night; oh, no!--but what can it matter to
you?"
In another woman Stafford would have suspected the question of
coquetry, of a desire to fish for the inevitable response; but looking
in those clear, guileless eyes, he could not entertain any such
suspicion.
"I beg your pardon; but it does matter very much," he retorted. "In the
first place, a man does not like being cut by a lady; and in the next,
we shall be neighbours--I'm going to stay there--" he nodded grimly at
the beautiful "little place."
"Neighbours?" she said, half absently. "It is farther off than you
think; and, besides, we know no one. We have no neighbours in that
sense--or friends. My father does not like to see anyone; we live quite
alone--"
"So I've heard--" He stopped and bit his lip; but she did not seem to
have noticed his interruption.
--"So that even if my father did not object to the house or--or--"
"My father," said Stafford with a smile.
A smile answered his candour.
"It would be all the same. And why should it matter to you? You have a
great many friends, no doubt--and we should not be likely to meet."
"Oh, yes, we should!" he said, with the dogged kind of insistence which
also sometimes surprised his friends. "I was going to avail myself of
your permission, and fish the stream--but, of course, I can't do that
now."
"No--I suppose not," she assented. "But we should be sure to meet on
the road--I should be riding--walking."
"But not on this side often," she argued.
A faint, very faint colour had stolen into the clear pallor of her
cheek, her eyes were downcast. She was honestly surprised, and, yes, a
little pleased that he should protest against the close of their
acquaintance; pleased, though why, she could not have told; for it did
not seem to matter.
"Oh, yes, I should," he retorted. "It's very pretty this side, and--See
here, Miss Heron." He drew a little nearer and looked up at her with
something like a frown in his eagerness. "Of course I shall speak to my
father about--well, about the way the land was bought, and I'm hoping,
I'm sure, that he will be able to explain it satisfactorily; and I want
to tell you that it is a mistake. I don't know much of my father, but I
can't believe that he would do anything underhand." He stopped suddenly
as the bagman's remarks flashed across his memory. "If your father's
grievance against him is just, why--ah, well, you'll have to cut me
when we meet; but I don't think it is; and I don't think it would be
fair to treat me as if _I_'d done something wrong."
Her brows came together, and she looked at him as if she were puzzled.
"I don't know why it matters," she said.
"Well, I can't tell you," he said, helplessly. "I only know that I
don't want to part from you this morning, knowing that the next time we
meet we should meet as strangers. I wanted to come to the Hall, to
enquire after Mr. Heron."
Her face flushed.
"Do not," she said in a low voice.
"I won't, of course," he responded, quickly. "It would only make
matters worse; your father would naturally dislike me, refuse to see
me; but--well, it's very hard on me."
She looked at him again, gravely, thoughtfully, as if she were still
puzzled by his persistence. Her eyes wandered to the dogs. Bess was
still standing up against him, and Donald had thrown himself down
beside him, and was regarding Ida with an air that said, quite plainly,
"This new friend of yours is all right."
"You have made friends with the dogs," she said, with a slight smile.
Stafford laughed.
"Oh, yes. There must be some good in dumb animals, for most of 'em take
to me at first sight."
She laughed at this not very brilliant display of wit. "I assure you
they wouldn't cut me next time we met. You can't be less charitable
than the dogs, Miss Heron!"
She gave a slight shrug to her straight, square shoulders. The gesture
seemed charming to Stafford, in its girlish Frenchiness.
"Ah, well," she said, with a pretty air of resignation, as if she were
tired of arguing.
Stafford's face lit up, and he laughed--the laugh of the man who wins;
but it died away rather suddenly, as she said gravely:
"But I do not think we shall meet often. I do not often go to the other
side of the lake: very seldom indeed; and you will not, you say, fish
the Heron; so that--Oh, there is the colt loose," she broke off. "How
can it have got out? I meant to ride it to-day, and Jason, thinking I
had changed my mind, must have turned it out."
The colt came waltzing joyously along the road, and catching sight of
the chestnut, whinnied delightedly, and the chestnut responded with one
short whinny of reproof. Ida rode forward and headed the colt, and
Stafford quietly slid along by the hedge and got behind it.
"Take care!" said Ida; "it is very strong. What are you going to do?"
Stafford did not reply, but stole up to the truant step by step
cautiously, and gradually approached near enough to lay his hand on its
shoulder; from its shoulder he worked to its neck and wound his arms
round it.
Ida laughed.
"Oh, you can't hold it!" she said as the colt plunged.
But Stafford hung on tightly and yet, so to speak, gently, soothing the
animal with the "horse language" with which every man who loves them is
acquainted.
Ida sat for an instant, looking round with a puzzled frown; then she
slipped down, took the bridle off the chestnut and slipped it on the
colt, the chestnut, who evidently understood the business, standing
stock still.
"Now I'll hold it--it will be quieter with me--if you will please
change the saddle."
Unthinkingly, Stafford obeyed, and got the saddle on the jigging and
dancing youngster. As unthinkingly, he put Ida up; and it was not until
the colt rose on its hind legs that he remembered to ask her if the
horse were broken.
"Scarcely," she said with a laugh; "but it will be all right.
Good-morning--and thank you!" And calling to the chestnut she turned
the colt and tore off, the chestnut and the dogs scampering after her.
Stafford's face grew hot for a moment with fear for her, then it grew
hotter with admiration as he watched her skimming across the moor in
the direction of the Hall. Once, just before she vanished from his
sight, she turned and waved her hand to him as if to assure him that
she was safe. The gesture reminded him of the white figure standing in
the doorway last night, and something stirred in his heart and sent a
warm thrill through him. In all his life he had never seen anyone like
her!