"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 thy 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!

CHAPTER V.

"You look rather serious, oh, my prince!" said Howard, as, some few hours later, he leisurely climbed into the phaeton beside Stafford. "I have noticed with inward satisfaction that as we approach the moment of meeting with your puissant parent, the Sultan, an air of gravity and soberness has clouded that confoundedly careless, devil-may-care countenance of yours. I say with inward satisfaction, because, with my usual candour, I don't mind admitting that I am shivering in my shoes. The shadow of the august presence is already falling on me, and as the hour draws near I feel my littleness, my utter insignificance, with an acuteness which almost compels me to ask you to let me get down and make my way back to London as best I can."

"Don't be an ass," retorted Stafford, rather absently.

"You ask an impossibility of me, my dear fellow; but I will try and conceal my asininity as best I can. May I ask, to change the subject, where you were wandering all the morning?"

Stafford coloured slightly and bestowed minute attention to the off horse.

"Oh, just prowling round," he replied, leisurely.

"You tempt me to finish the quotation. Did you find anyone to devour? Apropos, has his majesty, the Sultan, ever mentioned matrimony to you, Staff?"

Stafford looked round at him for an instant.

"No," he said, curtly. "What the devil made you ask?"

"Merely my incessant speculation as to your future, my dear fellow," replied Howard, blandly. "Most fathers are ambitious for their sons, and I should imagine that Sir Stephen would be extremely so. When a man is simply a plain 'Mr.,' he longs for the 'Sir;' when he gets the 'Sir,' he wants the 'my Lord' for himself, or for his son and heir. That is the worst of ambition: you can't satisfy it. I have no doubt in my mind that at this very moment Sir Stephen is making for a peerage for himself—or you. He can possibly gain his; but you, having no brains to speak of—the fact that good-looking men are always deficient in that respect is a continual and blessed consolation to us plain ones, Staff—will have to make what the world calls a 'good marriage.' Doubtless your father already has the future bride in his eye; the daughter of a peer—high in the government, perhaps in the cabinet—probably. Probably that is why he has asked you to meet him here. I hope, for your sake, that she is good-looking. I fancy"—musingly—"that you would be rather particular. If rumour does you no injustice, you always have been."

Stafford laughed shortly.

"I've never thought about marrying," he said, rather absently.

"No one does, my dear fellow. It comes, like measles and other unpleasant things, without thought; and when it comes, it is generally as unpleasant. Aren't we going at a tremendous rate, Stafford? Don't think I am nervous; I have ridden beside you too often for that. You destroyed what nerve I possessed long ago."

"We are late, and it's farther round than I thought," said Stafford. "The horses are fresh."

"I daresay; very probably Pottinger has given them a double feed; he would naturally like them to dash up in fine style. But if it's all the same to you"—as the horses broke into a gallop—"I should prefer to arrive at your father's 'little place' in a more dignified fashion than on a stretcher."

Stafford smiled and checked the high-spirited pair.

"You talk of women as if they were a—a kind of plague; you were never in love, Howard?" he asked.

"Never, thank Heaven!" responded Howard, devoutly. "When I think of it, I acknowledge that I have much to be thankful for. I was once: she was a girl with dark eyes—but I will spare you a minute description. I met her in a country rectory—is that horse, I think you call it the near one—going to jump over the bank? And one remarkably fine evening—it was moonlight, I remember—I was on the point of declaring my love; and then the gods saved me. The thought flashed upon me that, if she said 'yes,' I should have to sit opposite her at dinner for the rest of one of our lives. It saved me. I said that I thought it was chilly, and went in and up to bed, grateful for my escape. Why don't you laugh?"

Stafford only smiled in a perfunctory fashion. He was thinking of the girl he had watched riding off on the unbroken colt; of what it would seem like if she were seated opposite him, with the candle-light falling on her soft white dress, with diamonds gleaming in it, diamonds outshone by the splendour of those dark, violet-grey eyes; of what it would seem like if he could rise from his seat and go to her and take her in his arms and look into those dark grey eyes, and say, "You are mine, mine!" with no one to say him nay.

"It was a lucky escape for her," he said, dreamily.

"It was," assented Howard, solemnly. "Not one man in a thousand can love one woman all his life; and I've the strongest conviction that I am not that one. In less than six months I should have grown tired of her—in less than a year I should have flown from the joys of matrimony—or killed the partner of those joys. Has Pottinger a wife and family, my dear Stafford? If so, is it wise to risk his life in this fashion? I don't care for myself—though still young, I am not afraid to die, and I would as soon meet it hurled from a phaeton as not—but may I beg of you to think of Pottinger?"

Stafford laughed.

"The horses are all right," he said. "They are only fresh, and want to go."

He could not have driven slowly, for his mind, dwelling on the girl in the well-worn habit, was electric.

"I have spared you, hitherto, any laudation of the scenery, my dear Staff," said Howard, pleasantly, "but permit me to remark that it really is very beautiful. Trust the great and powerful Sir Stephen to choose the best nature and art can produce! What is this?"

"This" proved to be a newly built lodge which appeared on the left of the road. Stafford slowed up, and a lodgekeeper came and flung open the new and elaborately wrought iron gates.

"This the way to—to Sir Stephen's house?" asked Stafford.

The man touched his hat reverentially.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "Sir Stephen's arrived. Came an hour ago."

Stafford nodded, and drove on.

The road was certainly a new one, but it was lined with rhododendrons and costly shrubs, and it wound and wound serpentine fashion through shrubberies and miniature plantations which indicated not only remarkably good taste, but vast expenditure. At intervals the trees had been felled to permit a view of the lake, lying below, like a sapphire glowing in the sunlight.

Presently they came in sight of the house. It was larger than it had looked in the distance; a veritable palace. An architect had received carte-blanche, and disporting himself right royally, had designed a facade which it would be hard to beat: at any rate, in England.

Stafford eyed it rather grumpily. Most Englishmen dislike ostentation and display; and to Stafford the place seemed garish and "loud." Howard surveyed it with cynical admiration.

"A dream of Kubla Kahn—don't know whether I've got the name right: poem of Coleridge's, you know—but of course you don't know; you don't go in for poetry. Well I'm bound to admit that it's striking, not to say beautiful," he went on, as the horses sprang up the last ascent and rattled on in an impatient, high-spirited trot along the level road to the terrace fronting the entrance.

As Stafford pulled up, a couple of grooms came forward; the hall door—enamelled in peacock blue—opened and a butler and two footmen in rich maroon livery appeared. They came down the white marble steps in stately fashion and ranged themselves as if the ceremony were of vast importance, and as Howard and Stafford got down they bowed with the air of attendants receiving royalty.

As Stafford, flinging the reins to one of the grooms, got down, he caught sight of a line of liveried servants in the hall, and he frowned slightly.

Like most young Englishmen, he hated ostentation, which he designated as "fuss."

"Rub 'em down well, Pottinger," he said, and he leisurely patted the horses while the gorgeous footmen watched with solemn impressiveness.

"We've brought 'em along pretty well," he said, turning to Howard, who stood beside him with a fine and cynical smile; then he went up the white marble steps slowly, carefully ignoring the footmen who had drawn themselves into a line as if they were a guard of honour, specially drilled to receive him.

Followed by Howard, his cynical smile still lingering about his thin lips, Stafford entered the hall.

It was Oriental in shape and design, with a marble fountain in the centre, and carved arches before the various passages. The principal staircase was also of white marble with an Indian carpet of vivid crimson. Palms reared their tall and graceful heads at intervals, shading statuary in the prevailing white marble. Hangings of rose colour broke the sameness and accentuated the purity of the predominate whiteness.

Howard looked round with an admiration which obliterated his usual cynicism.

"Beautiful!" he murmured.

But Stafford frowned. The luxury, the richness of the place, though chaste, jarred on him; why, he could not have told.

Suddenly, as they were making their way through the lines of richly liveried servants, a curtain at one of the openings was thrown aside, and a gentleman came out to meet them.

He was rather a tall man, with white hair, but with eyebrows and moustache of jet-black. His eyes were brilliant but sharp, and he moved with the ease and alertness of youth.

There was something in his face, in its expression, which indicated strength and power; something in his manner, in his smile, peculiarly electric and sympathetic.

Howard stopped and drew back, but Stafford advanced, and Sir Stephen caught him by the hand and held it.

"My dear Stafford, my dear boy!" he said, in a deep but musical voice. "I expected you hours ago; I have been waiting! But better late than never. Who is this? Your friend, Mr. Howard? Certainly! How do you do, Mr. Howard! Welcome to our little villa on the lake!"



CHAPTER VI

Stafford's heart warmed at his father's greeting; indeed it would have been a very callous heart if it had not; for the emotion of genuine affection shone in Sir Stephen's brilliant eyes, and rang in his musical voice. Stafford was all the more impressed and touched, because the emotion was unusual, or rather, the expression of it.

This is a "casual" age, in which a man parts from or meets his relations and friends with the real or assumed indifference which is ordained by fashion. It is bad form to display one's affection, even for the woman one loves, excepting in extreme seclusion and privacy. If you meet your dearest chum who has just come out of the Transvaal War by the skin of his teeth, it is not permitted you to say more than: "Ah—er—how d'ye do. Got back, then, old man?" and at parting from one's nearest relative, perhaps for the remainder of his life, one must hide the grief that racks the heart, with an enquiry as to whether he has got a comfortable berth and has remembered his umbrella.

But Sir Stephen was evidently not ashamed of his pleasure and delight at the sight of his son, and he wrung his hand and looked him up and down with an affectionate and proud scrutiny.

"You're looking fit, Stafford, very fit! By George, I—I believe you've grown! And you've got—uglier than ever!"

Then, still holding Stafford's hand, he turned with a smile to Howard.

"You must forgive me, Mr. Howard! I've not seen this boy of mine for a devil of a time, and I've been looking forward to this meeting very keenly. The fond parent, you know, eh? But now let me say again how pleased I am to see you. Stafford has often mentioned you, his closest chum, and I was almost as anxious to see you as I was to see him."

"You are very kind, Sir Stephen," said Howard—his slow drawl unusually quickened—for he, too, was touched, though he would have died rather than have admitted it, by the warmth of Sir Stephen's reception of his son. "I was afraid that I should be rather de trop, if not absolutely intrusive—"

"Not at all—not at all!" Sir Stephen broke in. "My boy's friends are mine, especially his own particular pal. You are David and Jonathan, you two, I know; and Heaven forbid that I should part you! If you'll consider yourself one of the family, free to come and go just as you choose, I shall feel grateful to you; yes, that's the word—grateful!"

All this was said in the heartiest way, with the crowd of servants looking on and listening—though, like well-trained servants, they appeared both deaf and blind for all the expression that could be seen in their faces—then Sir Stephen led the way into the drawing-room.

"You've just time to dress," he said, consulting his watch; "your man Measom has turned up, Stafford. Mr. Howard will permit me to offer him the services of my valet—I don't trouble him much. And now I'll show you your rooms. Like this?" he added, as he paused at the door and looked round. "It's one of the smaller rooms; the ladies can keep it for themselves if they like."

"Charming!" said Howard; and the word was appropriate enough to the dainty apartment with its chaste decorations of crushed strawberry and gold, with hangings and furniture to match; with its grand piano in carved white wood and its series of water colours by some of the best of the Institute men.

"I'm glad!" responded Sir Stephen. "But I mustn't keep you. We'll go over the place after dinner—or some other time. To-night we are alone; the party doesn't come up till to-morrow. I wanted to have you, Stafford—and your friend—to myself before the crowd arrived."

They followed him up the broad stairs, which by low and easy steps led up to the exquisite corridor, harmonising perfectly with the eastern hall, on to which it looked through arches shaped and fitted in Oriental fashion.

"Here is your room. Ah, Measom! here is Mr. Stafford, Got everything ready for him, I hope?—and here, next door almost, is Mr. Howard's. This is a snuggery in between—keep your books and guns and fishing-rods in it, don't you know. Mr. Howard, you play, I think? There's a piano, Hope you'll like the view. Full south, with nothing between you and the lake. I'm not far off. See? Just opposite, You may find the rooms too hot, Stafford—Mr. Howard—and we'll change 'em, of course. Don't hurry: hope you'll find everything you want!"

He laid his hand on Stafford's shoulder and nodded at him with frank affection, before he went, and as he closed the door they heard him say to some one below:

"Don't serve the dinner till Mr. Stafford comes down!"

Stafford went to the window, and Howard stood in silence beside him for a moment, then he said—Measom had left the room:

"I congratulate you, Staff! In sackcloth and ashes, I confess I thought that kind of father only existed in women's books and emotional plays."

Stafford nodded.

"He's—he's kindness itself," he said, in a very low voice and not turning his head. "I didn't know that he was like—this. I didn't know he cared—"

"It's evident he cares very much!" said Howard, gravely. "If you were the Prodigal Son he couldn't have felt it more."

"And yet they say—that bagman said—" muttered Stafford with smouldering rage and indignation.

"There are few things in my life that I regret, my dear Staff; but till my dying day I shall regret that I did not turn and rend that bagman! He's a splendid fellow—splendid! Now I've seen him I don't wonder at his success. Envy is not one of my numerous vices, Staff; but frankly I envy you your father! Wake up, old man! We mustn't keep him waiting! What quarters!" He looked round the room as he moved to go. "Fit for a prince! But you are a prince! Why, dash it, I feel like a prince myself! How are you, Measom? Got down all right, then?—I'll give you a knock when I'm ready, Stafford!"

Stafford dressed quickly, thinking all the while of his father; of his good looks, his deep, pleasant voice, his affectionate welcome; and thrusting from him the unfavourable impression which the ornate splendour of the place had made.

Howard knocked presently and the two men went down. Sir Stephen was waiting in the hall; and Stafford, with a little thrill of pride, noticed that he looked still more distinguished in his evening-dress, which was strikingly plain; a single pearl—but it was priceless one—was its only ornament.

"By George, you have been quick!" said Sir Stephen, with his genial smile.

"That's one for yourself, sir," said Stafford.

"Oh, I? I can dress in five minutes," responded Sir Stephen, linking his arm in Stafford's. "I'm almost as good as a 'quick-change artist.'"

He drew aside to let Howard follow the butler between the two footmen drawn up beside the door, and they entered the dining-room.

It was of choice American walnut, and lit by rose-shaded electric lights, in which the plate and the glass, the flowers and the napery glowed softly: an ideal room which must have filled the famous decorator who had designed it with just pride and elation. The table had been reduced to a small oval; and the servants proceeded to serve a dinner which told Howard that Sir Stephen had become possessed of a chef who was a cordon bleu. The wines were as choice as the menu; but Sir Stephen watered his Chateau claret, and ate but little, excusing himself in the middle of a sentence with:

"I'm setting you a bad example. But there's always a skeleton at my feast—a rather common one nowadays; they call him Gout. And so you drove down? That must have been pleasant! It's a pretty country—so I'm told. I didn't see much of it from the train. But the lake—ah, well, it's indescribable, isn't it! After all one sees, one is bound to admit that there is nothing to beat English scenery; of course I include Irish. We've a strain of Irish blood in us, Mr. Howard, and I always stand up for the ould counthry. Things are looking up there lately; we're beginning to appreciated. Give us a year or two, and we'll have all the world and his wife scampering over it. I've a little Irish scheme of my own—but I mustn't bore you the first night. Mr. Howard, if that wine is too thin—"

Howard clutched his glass with dramatic intensity.

"Chateau Legrange, if I'm not mistaken, sir," he said; "but let it be what it may, it's simply perfect."

"I'm glad. See here, now, it's understood between us that if there's anything you want, anything you'd like altered, you'll say so, eh, Stafford?" he said, with an affectionate anxiety. "I'm a rough-and-ready kind of man, and anything pleases me; but you—ah, well, you two have the right to be particular; and I'll ask you to ask for just what you want—and be sure you get it."

Stafford glanced round the room with its costly appointments, and Sir Stephen caught the glance, and smiled.

"You're thinking—ah, well, no matter. Mr. Howard, try those strawberries. I don't think they're forced. They tell me that they get them on the slope even earlier than this. This port—now see how nice the people in these parts are! this port came from the landlord of the—the—yes, The Woodman Inn. He sent it with his respectful compliments, saying you did him the honour to praise it last night. You stayed there, I suppose? Surprisingly kind: quite a Spanish bit of courtesy. I wrote Mr.—yes, Mr. Groves a note thanking him on your behalf, and I sent him some dry sherry which Stenson here"—he smiled at the butler—"tells me is rather good, eh, Stenson?"

The solemn gravity of Stenson's face did not relax in the slightest, as he murmured:

"Count de Meza's '84, sir."

"Right! So long as it was the best we had. You approve, Stafford, eh?"

Stafford nodded with something more than approval.

"Thank you, sir," he said, simply. "We admired Mr. Groves's port."

"He's a good fellow. I hope he'll enjoy the sherry. I shall take the first opportunity of calling and expressing my sense of his kindness—No more? Shall we have the coffee with the cigars in the billiard room?"

The footmen escorted them through the billiard-room to the smoking-room, only divided from it by a screen of Eastern fret-work draped by costly hangings. There were inlaid tables and couches of exquisite workmanship, and a Moresque cabinet, which the butler unlocked and from which he took cigars and cigarettes.

Sir Stephen waved them to seats, and sank into a low chair with a sigh of satisfaction and enjoyment. The footmen placed the exquisite coffee-service of Limoges enamel on one of the tables, and, as they left the room, Howard, as if he could not help himself, said:

"This is a veritable Aladdin's Palace, Sir Stephen! Though I can imagine that fabulous erection cannot have been as comfortable as this."

"I'm glad you like it," he said. "But do you like it?" he put in, with a shrewd gleam in his eyes, which could be keen as well as brilliant and genial. "I fancy you think it too fine—eh, Stafford?" He laid his hand on Stafford's knee with a somewhat appealing gesture and glance. "I've seen a doubt on your face once or twice—and, by George! you haven't seen half the place yet. Yes, Mr. Howard, I'll admit that it is rather luxurious; that's the result of giving these new men carte-blanche. They take you at your word, sir. I'll own up I was a little surprised to-day; for I told them to build me a villa—but then I wanted thirty or forty bedrooms, so I suppose they had to make it rather large. It seemed to me that as it overlooks the lake it ought to be after the style of those places one sees in Italy, and I hinted that for the interior an Oriental style might be suitable; but I left them a free hand, and if they've overdone it they ought to have known better. I employed the men who were recommended to me."

There was a pause for a moment. Stafford tried to find some phrase which would conceal his lack of appreciation; and his father, as if he saw what was passing through Stafford's mind, went on quickly but smoothly:

"Yes, I see. It is too fine and ornamental. But I don't think you'll find that the people who are coming here tomorrow will agree with you. I may not know much about art and taste, but I know my world. Stafford—Mr. Howard—I'll make a clean breast of it. I built this place with an object. My dear sir, you won't think me guilty of sticking it up to please Stafford here. I know his taste too well; something like mine, I expect—a cosy room with a clean cloth and a well-cooked chop and potato. I've cooked 'em myself before now—the former on a shovel, the latter in an empty meat-tin. Of course I know that Stafford and you, Mr. Howard, have lived very different lives to mine. Of course. You have been accustomed to every refinement and a great deal of luxury over since you left the cradle. Quite right! I'm delighted that it should be so. Nothing is too good for Stafford here—and his chum—nothing!"

Stafford's handsome face flushed.

"You've been very generous to me, sir," he said, in his brief way, but with a glance at his father which expressed more than the words.

Sir Stephen threw his head back and laughed.

"That's all right, Staff," he said. "It's been a pleasure to me. I just wanted to see you happy—'see you' is rather inappropriate, though, isn't it, considering how very little I have seen you? But there were reasons—We won't go into that. Where was I?"

"You were telling us your reasons for building this place, sir," Howard reminded him quietly.

Sir Stephen shot a glance at him, a cautious glance.

"Was I? By George! then I am more communicative than usual. My friends in the city and elsewhere would tell you that I never give any reasons. But what I was saying was this: that I've learnt that the world likes tinsel and glitter—just as the Sioux Indians are caught by glass beads and lengths of Turkey red calico. And I give the world what it wants. See?"

He laughed, a laugh which was as cynical as Howard's.

"The world is not so much an oyster which you've got to open with a sword, as the old proverb has it, but a wild beast. Yes, a wild beast: and you've got to fight him at first, fight him tooth and claw. When you've beaten him, ah! then you've got to feed him."

"You have beaten your wild beast, Sir Stephen," remarked Howard.

"Well—yes, more or less; anyhow, he seemed ready to come to my hand for the tit-bits I can give him. The world likes to be feted, likes good dinners and high-class balls; but above all it likes to be amused. I'm going to give it what it wants."

Stafford looked up. This declaration coming from his father jarred upon Stafford, whose heart he had won.

"Why should you trouble, sir?" he said, quietly. "I should have thought you would have been satisfied."

"Because I want something more from it; something in return," said Sir Stephen, with a smile. "Satisfied? No man is satisfied. I've an ambition yet ungratified, and I mean to gratify it. You think I'm vaunting, Mr. Howard?" "No, I think you are simply stating a fact," responded Howard, gravely.

"I thank you, sir," said Sir Stephen, as gravely. "I speak so confidently because I see my way clearly before me. I generally do. When I don't, I back out and lie low."

Stafford found this too painful. He rose to get a light and sauntered into the billiard-room and tried the table.

Sir Stephen looked after him musingly, and seemed to forget Howard's presence; then suddenly his face flushed and his eyes shone with a curious mixture of pride and tenderness and the indomitable resolution which had helped him to fight his "wild beast." He leant forward and touched Howard's knee.

"Don't you understand!" he said, earnestly, and in a low voice which the click of the billiard balls prevented Stafford from hearing. "It is for him! For my boy, Mr. Howard! It's for him that I have been working, am still working. For myself—I am satisfied—as he said; but not for him. I want to see him still higher up the ladder than I have climbed. I have done fairly well—heaven and earth! if anyone had told me twenty years ago that I should be where and what I am to-day—well, I'd have sold my chances for a bottle of ale. You smile. Mr. Howard, it was anything but beer and skittles for me then. I want to leave my boy a—title. Smile again, Mr. Howard; I don't mind."

"I haven't a smile about me, sir," said Howard.

"Ah, you understand. You see my mind. I don't know why I've told you, excepting that it is because you are Staff's friend. But I've told you now. And am I not right? Isn't it a laudable ambition? Can you say that he will not wear it well, however high the title may be? Where is there such another young fellow? Proud—pride is too poor a word for what I feel for him!"

He paused and sank back, but leant forward again.

"Though I've kept apart from him, Mr. Howard, I have watched him—but in no unworthy sense. No, I haven't spied upon him."

"There was no need, sir," said Howard, very quietly.

"I know it. Stafford is as straight as a dart, as true as steel. Oh, I've heard of him. I know there isn't a more popular man in England—forgive me if I say I don't think there's a handsomer."

Howard nodded prompt assent.

"I read of him, in society, at Hurlingham. Everywhere he goes he holds his own. And I know why. Do you believe in birth, Mr. Howard?" he asked, abruptly.

"Of course," replied Howard.

"So do I, though I can't lay claim to any. But there's a good strain in Stafford and it shows itself. There's something in his face, a certain look in his eyes, in his voice, and the way he moves; that quiet yet frank manner—oh, I can't explain!" he broke off, impatiently.

"I think you have done it very well," said Howard. "I don't like the word—it is so often misapplied—but I can't think of any better: distinguished is the word that describes Stafford."

Sir Stephen nodded eagerly.

"You are right. Some men are made, born to wear the purple. My boy is one of them—and he shall! He shall take his place amongst the noblest and the best in the land. He shall marry with the highest. Nature has cast him in a noble mould, and he shall step into his proper place."

He drew a long breath, and his brilliant eyes flashed as if he were looking into the future, looking into the hour of triumph.

"Yes; I agree with you," said Howard; "but I am afraid Stafford will scarcely share your ambition."

He was sorry he had spoken as he saw the change which his words had caused in Sir Stephen.

"What?" he said, almost fiercely. "Why do you say that? Why should he not be ambitious?" He stopped and laid his hand on Howard's shoulder, gripping it tightly, and his voice sank to a stern whisper. "You don't know of anything—there is no woman—no entanglement?"

"No, no!" said Howard. "Make your mind easy on that point. There is no one. Stafford is singularly free in that respect. In fact—well, he is rather cold. There is no one, I am sure. I should have known it, if there had been."

Sir Stephen's grip relaxed, and the stern, almost savage expression was smoothed out by a smile.

"Right," he said, still in a whisper. "Then there is no obstacle in my way. I shall win what I am fighting for. Though it will not be an easy fight. No, sir. But easy or difficult, I mean winning."

He rose and stood erect—a striking figure looking over Howard's head with an abstracted gaze; then suddenly his eyelids quivered, his face grew deathly pale, and his hand went to his heart.

Howard sprang to his feet with an exclamation of alarm; but Sir Stephen held up his hand warningly, moved slowly to one of the tables, poured out a glass of liqueur and drank it. Then he turned to Howard, who stood watching him, uncertain what to do or say, and said, with an air of command:

"Not a word. It is nothing."

Then he linked his arm in Howard's and led him into the billiard-room.

"Table all right, Stafford?"

"First-rate, sir," replied Stafford. "You and Mr. Howard play a hundred."

"No, no," said Sir Stephen. "You and Howard. I should enjoy looking on."

"We'll have a pool," said Stafford, taking the balls from the cabinet. Howard watched Sir Stephen as he played his first shot: his hand was perfectly steady, and he soon showed that he was a first-rate player.

"That was a good shot," said Stafford, with a touch of pride in his voice. "I don't know that I've seen a better. You play a good game, sir."

Sir Stephen's face flushed at his son's praise, as a girl's might have done; but he laughed it off.

"Only so, so, Staff. I don't play half as good a game as you and Mr. Howard. How should I?—Mr. Howard, there is the spirit-stand. You'll help yourself? Servants are a nuisance in a billiard-room."

Not once for the rest of the evening did he show any sign of the weakness which had so startled Howard, and as they went up the stairs he told them a story with admirable verve and with evident enjoyment.

"Sorry our evening has come to an end," he said as they stood outside his door. "It is the last we shall have to ourselves. Pity. But it can't be helped."

Unconsciously he opened the door as he spoke, and Stafford said:

"Is this your room, sir?"

"Yes; walk in, my boy," replied Sir Stephen.

Stafford walked in and stood stock-still with amazement. The room was as plainly furnished as a servant's—more plainly, probably, than the servants who were housed under his roof. Saving for a square of carpet by the bed and dressing-table the floor was bare; the bed was a common one of iron, narrow and without drapery, the furniture was of painted deal. The only picture was a portrait of Stafford enlarged from a photograph, and it hung over the mantel-piece so that Sir Stephen could see it from the bed. Of course neither Stafford nor Howard made any remark.

"Remember that portrait, Stafford?" asked Sir Stephen, with a smile. "I carry it about with me wherever I go. Foolish and fond old father, eh, Mr. Howard? It's a good portrait, don't you think?"

Stafford held out his hand.

"Good-night, sir," he said in a very low voice.

"Good-night, my boy! Sure you've got everything you want? And you, Mr. Howard? Don't let me disturb you in the morning. I've got a stupid habit of getting up early—got it years ago, and it clings, like other habits. Hope you'll sleep well. If you don't, change your rooms before the crowd comes. Good-night."

"Did you see the room?" asked Stafford, huskily, when he and Howard had got into Stafford's.

Howard nodded.

"I feel as if I could pitch all this"—Stafford looked at the surrounding luxuries—"out of the window! I don't understand him. Great Heaven! he makes me feel the most selfish, pampered wretch on the face of the earth. He's—he's—"

"He is a man!" said Howard, with an earnestness which was strange in him.

"You are right," said Stafford. "There never was such a father. And yet—yet—I don't understand him. He is such a mixture. How such a man could talk as he did—no I don't understand it."

"I do," said Howard.

But then Sir Stephen had given him the key to the enigma.

CHAPTER VII

Stafford slept well, and was awake before Measom came to call him. It was a warm and lovely morning, and Stafford's first thoughts flew to a bath. He got into flannels, and found his way to the lake, and as he expected, there was an elaborate and picturesque bathing-shed beside the Swiss-looking boat-house, in which were an electric launch and boats of all descriptions. There also was a boatman in attendance, with huge towels on his arm.

"Did you expect me?" asked Stafford, as the man touched his hat and opened the bathing-shed.

"Yes, sir; Sir Stephen sent down last night to say that you might come down."

Stafford nodded. His father forgot nothing! The boatman rowed him out into the lake and Stafford had a delightful swim. It reminded him of Geneva, for the lake this morning was almost as clear and as vivid in colouring: and that is saying a great deal.

The boatman, who watched his young master admiringly—for Stafford was like a fish in the water—informed him that the launch would be ready in a moment's notice, or the sailing boat either, for the matter of that, if he should require them.

"I've another launch, a steamer, and larger than this, coming to-morrow; and Sir Stephen told me to get some Canadian canoes, in case you or any of the company that's coming should fancy them, sir."

As Stafford went up to the house in the exquisite "after-bath" frame of mind, he met his father. The expression of Sir Stephen's face, which a moment earlier, before he had turned the corner of the winding path, had been grave and keen, and somewhat hard, softened, and his eyes lit up with a smile which had no little of the boatman's admiration in it.

"Had a swim, my boy? Found everything right, I hope? I was just going down to see."

"Yes, everything," replied Stafford. "I can't think how you have managed to get it done in so short a time," he added, looking round at the well-grown shrubs, the smooth paths and the plush-like lawns, which all looked as if they had been in cultivation for years.

Sir Stephen shrugged his shoulders.

"It is all a question of money—and the right men," he said. "I always work on the plan, and ask the questions: 'How soon, how much?' Then I add ten per cent. to the contract price on condition that the time is kept. I find 'time' penalties are no use: it breaks the contractor's back; but the extra ten per cent. makes them hustle, as they say on the 'other side.' Have you seen the stables yet? But of course you haven't, or I should have seen you there. I go down there every morning; not because I understand much about horses, but because I'm fond of them. That will be your department, my dear Stafford."

At each turn of their way Stafford found something to admire, and his wonderment at the settled and established "Oh, I stipulated that there shouldn't be any newness—any 'smell of paint,' so to speak. Here are the stables; I had them put as far from the house as possible, and yet get-at-able. Most men like to stroll about them. I hope you'll like them. Mr. Pawson, the trainer, designed them."

Stafford nodded with warm approval.

"They seem perfect," he said as, after surveying the exterior, he entered and looked down the long reach of stalls and loose boxes, many of which were occupied, as he saw at a glance, by valuable animals. "They are a fine lot, sir," he said, gravely, as he went down the long line. "A remarkably fine lot! I have never seen a better show. This fellow—why, isn't he Lord Winstay's bay, Adonis?"

"Yes," said Sir Stephen. "I thought you'd like him."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Stafford. "You don't mean that you have bought him for me, sir! I know that Winstay refused eight hundred guineas for him."

"I daresay," replied Sir Stephen. "Why shouldn't I buy him for you, my boy? There's another one in the box next that one; a little stiffer. I'm told he's up to your weight and—"

Stafford went into the box and looked at the horse. It was a magnificent, light-weight hunter—the kind of horse that makes a riding-man's heart jump.

"I should say that there are not two better horses of their sort in the county," Stafford said, solemnly, and with a flush of his handsome face.

Sir Stephen's eyes gleamed.

"That's all right: they can't be too good, Stafford."

The head groom, Davis by name, stood, with Pottinger and some underlings, at a little distance in attendance, and the men exchanged glances and nods.

"Have you seen these, Pottinger?" asked Stafford, turning to him, and speaking in the tone which servants love.

Pottinger touched his forehead.

"Yes, sir; they're first rate, and no mistake. I've just been telling Mr. Davis he's got a splendid lot, sir—splendid!"

"Not but what your own pair 'ud be hard to beat, sir," said Davis, respectfully. "There's a mare here, Sir Stephen, I should like to show Mr. Stafford."

The mare was taken out into the yard, and Stafford examined her and praised her with a judgment and enthusiasm which filled Davis's heart with pride.

"Your young guv'nor's the right sort, Pottinger," he remarked as Stafford at last reluctantly tore himself away from the stables. "Give me a master as understands a horse and I don't mind working for him."

Pottinger nodded and turned the straw in his mouth.

"If you're alludin' to Mr. Stafford, then you'll enjoy your work, Mr. Davis; for you've got what you want. What my guv'nor don't know about a 'oss isn't worth knowing."

"So I should say," assented Davis, emphatically. "I do hate to have a juggins about the place. Barker, is that a spot o' rust on that pillar-chain, or is my eyesight deceiving me? No, my men, if there's the slightest thing askew when Mr. Stafford walks round, I shall break my heart—and sack the man who's responsible for it. Pottinger, if you'd like that pair o' yours moved, if you think they ain't comfortable, you say so, and moved they shall be."

As Sir Stephen and Stafford strolled back to the house the former paused now and again to point out something he wished Stafford to see, always appealing for his approval.

"Everything is perfect, sir," Stafford said at last. "And, above all, the situation," he added as he looked at the magnificent view, the opal lake mirroring the distant mountains, flecked by the sunlight and the drifting clouds.

"Yes, I was fortunate in getting it," remarked Sir Stephen.

Instantly there flashed across Stafford's mind—and not for the first time that morning—the words Ida Heron had spoken respecting the way in which Sir Stephen had obtained the land. Looking straight before him, he asked:

"How did you get it, sir? I have heard that it was difficult to buy land here for building purposes."

"Yes, I fancy it is," replied Sir Stephen, quite easily. "Now you speak of it, I remember my agent said there was some hitch at first; but he must have got over it in some way or other. He bought it of a farmer." Stafford drew a breath of relief. "This is the Italian garden; the tennis and croquet lawns are below this terrace—there's not time to go down. But you haven't seen half of it yet. There's the breakfast-bell. Don't trouble to change: I like you in those flannels." He laid his hand on Stafford's broad, straight shoulder. "You have the knack of wearing your clothes as if they grew on you, Staff."

Stafford laughed.

"I ought to hand that compliment on to Measom, sir," he said; "he's the responsible person and deserves the credit, if there is any." He looked at his father's upright, well-dressed and graceful figure. "But he would hand it back to you, I think, sir."

There was a pause, then Stafford said:

"Do you know any of your neighbours—any of the people round about?"

"No; I was never here until yesterday, excepting for an hour or two. But we shall know them, I suppose; they'll call in a little while, and we will ask them to dinner, and so on. There should be some nice people—Ah, Mr. Howard, we've stolen a march on you!"

"I'm not surprised, sir," said Howard, as he came up in his slow and languid way. "I am sorry to say that Stafford has an extremely bad habit of getting up at unreasonable hours. I wait until I am dragged out of bed by a fellow-creature or the pangs of hunger. Of course you have been bathing, Staff? Early rising and an inordinate love of cold water—externally—at all seasons are two of his ineradicable vices, Sir Stephen. I have done my best to cure them, but—alas!"

They went in to breakfast, which was served in a room with bay windows opening on to the terrace overlooking the lake. Exactly opposite Stafford's chair was the little opening on the other side from which he and the girl from Heron Hall had gazed at the villa. He looked at it and grew silent.

A large dispatch-box stood beside Sir Stephen's plate. He did not open it, but sent it to his room.

"I never read my letters before breakfast," he remarked. "They spoil one's digestion. I'm afraid the mail's heavy this morning, judging by the weight of the box; so that I shall be busy. You two gentlemen will, I trust, amuse yourselves in your own way. Mr. Howard, the groom will await your orders."

"Thanks," said Howard; "but I propose to sit quite still on a chair which I have carried out on to the terrace. I have had enough of driving to last me for a week;" and he shuddered.

Stafford laughed.

"Howard's easily disposed of, sir," he said. "Give him a hammock or an easy-chair in the shade, and he can always amuse himself by going to sleep."

"True; and if half the men I know spent their time in a similar fashion this would be a brighter and a better world. What you will do, my dear Stafford, I know by bitter experience. He will go and wade through a river or ride at a break-neck pace down some of those hills. Stafford is never happy unless he is trying to lay up rheumatism for his old age or endeavouring to break his limbs."

Sir Stephen looked across the table at the stalwart, graceful frame; but he said nothing: there was no need, for his eyes were eloquent of love and admiration.

Stafford changed into riding things soon after breakfast, went down to the stables and had Adonis saddled. Davis superintended the operation and the stablemen edged round to watch. Davis expressed his approval as Stafford mounted and went off on a splendid creature, remarking as he started:

"Beautiful mouth, Davis!"

"Yes, Pottinger," said Davis, succinctly, "he's worthy of him. That's what I call 'hands' now. Dash my aunt if you'd find it easy to match the pair of 'em! There's a class about both that you don't often see. If you'll step inside my little place, Mr. Pottinger, we'll drink your guv'nor's health. I like his shape, I like his style; and I'm counted a bit of a judge. He's a gentleman, and a high-bred 'n at that."

Stafford rode down the winding drive at which the gardeners were at work on borders and shrubberies, and on to the road. The air was like champagne. The slight breeze just ruffled the lake on which the sun was glittering; Stafford was conscious of a strange feeling of eagerness, of quickly thrilling vitality which was new to him. He put it down to the glorious morning, to the discovery of the affection of his father, to the good horse that stepped as lightly as an Arab, and carried him as if he were a feather; and yet all the while he knew that these did not altogether account for the electric eagerness, the "joy of living" which possessed him.

He pulled up for a moment at The Woodman Inn to thank Mr. Groves for the port, and that gentleman came out, as glad to see him as if he were an old friend.

"Don't mention it, sir," he said. "I thought a long time before I sent it, because I wasn't sure that Sir Stephen and you might think it a liberty; but I needn't have done so, I know now. And it was kind of Sir Stephen to send me a note with the sherry. It was like a gentleman, if you'll excuse me saying so, sir."

Stafford rode over the hill and along the road by the stream, and as he rode he looked round him eagerly and keenly. In fact, as if he were scouting. But that for which he was looking so intently did not appear; his spirits fell—though the sun was still shining—and he sighed impatiently, and putting Adonis through the stream, cantered over the moor at the foot of the hills. Suddenly he heard the bark of a dog, and looking eagerly in the direction of the sound, he saw Ida Heron walking quickly round the hill, with Donald and Bess scampering in front of her.

The gloom vanished from Stafford's face, and he checked Adonis into a walk. The dogs were the first to see him, and they tore towards him barking a welcome. Ida looked up—she had been walking with her eyes bent on the ground—the colour rose to her face, and she stopped for an instant. Then she came on slowly, and by the time they had met there was no trace of the transitory blush.

Stafford raised his hat and dismounted, and tried to speak in a casual tone; but it was difficult to conceal the subtle delight which sprang up within him at the sight of her; and he looked at the beautiful face and the slim, graceful figure in its tailor-made gown—which, well worn as it was, seemed to him to sit upon her as no other dress had ever sat upon any other woman—he had hard work to keep the admiration from his eyes.

"I begin to count myself a very lucky man, Miss Heron," he said.

"Why?" she asked, her grave eyes resting on him calmly.

"Because I have chanced to meet you again."

"It is not strange," she said. "I am nearly always out-of-doors. What a beautiful horse!"

"Isn't it!" he said, grateful for her praise. "It is a new one—a present from my father this morning."

"A very valuable present! It ought to be able to jump."

"It is. I put it at a bank just now, and it cleared it like a bird. I am very glad I have met you. I wanted to tell you something."

She raised her eyes from the horse and waited, with the quietude, the self-possession and dignity which seemed so strange in one so young, and which, by its strangeness, fascinated him. "I—spoke to my father about the land: he is innocent in the matter. It was bought through his agent, and my father knows nothing of anything—underhand. I can't tell you how glad I am that this is so. So glad that—I'll make a clean breast of it—I rode over this morning in the hope of meeting you and telling you."

She made a little gesture of acceptance.

"I am glad, too. Though it does not matter...."

"Ah, but it does!" he broke in. "I should have been wretched if you had been right, and my father had been guilty of anything of the kind. But, as a matter of fact, he isn't capable of it—as you'd say if you knew him. Now, there's no reason why we shouldn't be friends, is there?" he added, with a suppressed eagerness.

"Oh, no," she responded. She glanced up at the sky. Unnoticed by him a cloud had drifted over the Langdale pikes, as the range of high mountain is called. "It is going to rain, and heavily."

"And you have no umbrella, waterproof!" exclaimed Stafford.

She laughed with girlish amusement.

"Umbrella? I don't think I have such a thing; and this cloth is nearly waterproof; besides, I never notice the rain—here it comes!"

It came with a vengeance; it was as if the heavens had opened and let down the bottom of a reservoir.

Stafford mechanically took off his coat.

"Put this on," he said. "That jacket is quite light; you'll get wet through."

Her face crimsoned, and she laughed a little constrainedly.

"Please put your coat on!" she said, gravely and earnestly. "You will be wet through, and you are not used to it. There is a shed round the corner; ride there as quickly as you can."

Stafford stared at her, then burst into a laugh which echoed hers.

"And leave you here! Is it likely?"

"Well, let us both go," she said, as if amused by his obstinacy.

"Is it far?" he asked. "See if you can manage to balance on the saddle—I would run beside you. It's all very well to talk of not minding the rain, but this is a deluge."

She glanced at the horse.

"I couldn't get up—I could if he were barebacked, or if it were a lady's saddle—it doesn't matter. Look, Donald and Bess are laughing at you for making a fuss about a shower."

"Will you try—let me help you?" he pleaded. "I could lift you quite easily—Oh, forgive me, but I'm not used to standing by and seeing a girl get soaked."

"You are walking—not standing," she reminded him, solemnly.

Perhaps her smile gave him courage: he took her just below the shoulders and lifted her on to the saddle, saying as he did so, and in as matter-of-fact a voice as he could:

"If you'll just put your hand on my shoulder, you'll find that you can ride quite safely—though I expect you could do it without that—I've seen you ride, you know."

He kept his eyes from her, so that he did not see the hot blush which mantled in the clear ivory of her face, or the sudden tightening of the lips, as if she were struggling against some feeling, and fighting for her usual self-possession.

She succeeded in a moment or two, and when he looked up the blush had gone and something like amusement was sharing the sweet girlish confusion in her grey eyes.

"This is absurd!" she said. "It is to be hoped Jason or none of the men will see me; they would think I had gone mad; and I should never hear the last of it. The shed is by that tree."

"I see it—just across the road. Please keep a tight hold of my shoulder; I should never forgive myself if you slipped."

"I am not in the least likely to slip," she said.

Then suddenly, just as they were on the edge of the road, she uttered an exclamation of surprise rather than embarrassment, for a carriage and pair came round the corner and almost upon them.

Stafford stopped Adonis to let the carriage pass, but the coachman pulled up in response to a signal from someone inside, and a man thrust his head out of the window and regarded them at first with surprise and then with keen scrutiny.

He was an elderly man, with a face which would have been coarse but for its expression of acuteness and a certain strength which revealed itself in the heavy features.

"Can you tell me the way to Sir Stephen Orme's place?" he asked in a rough, harsh voice.

Ida was about to slip down, but she reflected that the mischief, if there were any, was done now; and to Stafford's admiration, she sat quite still under the gaze of the man's keen, sarcastic eyes.

"Yes; keep straight on and round by The Woodman: you will see the house by that time," said Stafford.

"Thanks! Drive on, coachman," said the man; and he drew in his head with a grim smile, and something like a sneer on his thick lips that made Stafford's eyes flash.



CHAPTER VIII.

Stafford and Ida remained, unconscious of the rain, looking after the carriage for a moment or two.

The sneer on the man's heavy yet acutely sharp face, still incensed Stafford. He had the usual desire of the strong man—to dash after the rapidly disappearing vehicle, lug the fellow out and ask him what he was sneering at.

Ida was the first to speak.

"What a strange-looking man," she said.

Stafford started slightly, awaking to the fact that it was still pouring.

"I—I beg your pardon. I'm keeping you out in the rain."

He put Adonis, not at all unwillingly, to a trot, and they gained the rough cattle-shed, and he would have lifted the girl down, but she was too quick for him, and slipped gracefully and easily from the saddle.

Stafford, leading the horse, followed her into the shed. Bess sat on the extreme end of her haunches shivering and blinking, and all too plainly cursing the British climate; but Donald threw himself down outside as if he regarded the deluge as a cheap shower-bath.

Stafford looked at Ida anxiously.

"You are fearfully wet," he said. "I think I could wipe off the worst of it, if you'll let me."

He took out his pocket handkerchief as he spoke and wiped the rain from her straight, beautifully moulded shoulders. She drew back a little and opened her lips to protest at first, but with a slight shrug she resigned herself, her eyes downcast, a faint colour in her face.

"I must be quite dry now," she said at last.

"I'm afraid not," said Stafford. "I wish I had something bigger—a towel."

She laughed, the sweet girlish laugh which seemed to him the most musical sound he had ever heard.

"A towel? Fancying carrying a towel to wipe oneself with when it rained! It is evident you don't know our country. There are weeks sometimes in which it never ceases to rain. And you must be wet through yourself," she added, glancing at him.

He was on his knees at the moment carefully wiping the old habit skirt with his saturated handkerchief as if the former were something precious; and her woman's eye noted his short crisp hair, the shapely head and the straight broad back.

"I'm afraid that's all I can do!" he said, regretfully, as he rose and looked at her gravely. "Do you mean to say that you habitually ride out in such weather as this?"

"Why, yes!" she replied, lightly. "Why not? I am too substantial to melt, and I never catch cold. Besides, I have to go out in all weathers to see to the cattle and the sheep."

He leant against one of the posts which supported the shed, and gazed at her with more intense interest than any other woman had ever aroused in him.

"Isn't there a foreman, a bailiff, whatever you call him, in these parts?"

She shook her head.

"No; we cannot afford one; so I do his work. And very pleasant work it is, especially in fine weather."

"And you are happy?" he asked, almost unconsciously.

Her frank eyes met his with a smile of amusement.

"Yes, quite happy," she answered. "Why? Does it seem so unlikely, so unreasonable?"

"Well, it does," he replied, as if her frankness were contagious. "Of course, I could understand it if you did it occasionally, if you did it because you liked riding; but to be obliged, to have to go out in all weathers, it isn't right!"

She looked at him thoughtfully.

"Yes, I suppose it seems strange to you. I suppose most of the ladies you know are rich, and only ride to amuse themselves, and never go out when they do not want to do so. Sir Stephen Orme—you—are very rich, are you not? We, my father and I, are poor, very poor. And if I did not look after things, if I were not my own bailiff—Oh, well, I don't know what would happen."

Stafford gnawed at his moustache as he gazed at her. The exquisitely colourless face, in which the violet eyes glowed like two twin flowers, the delicately cut lips, soft and red, the dark hair clustering at the ivory temples in wet rings, set his heart beating with a heavy pulsation that was an agony of admiration and longing—a longing that was vague and indistinct.

"Yes, I suppose it must seem strange to you," she said, as if she were following out the lines of her own thoughts. "You must be accustomed to girls who are so different."

"Yes, they're different," he admitted. "Most of the women I know would be frightened to death if they were caught in such a rain as this; would be more than frightened to death if they had to ride down that hill most of 'em think they've done wonder if they get in at the end of a run over a fairly easy country; and none of 'em could doctor a sick sheep to save their lives."

"Yes," she said, dreamily. "I've seen them, but only at a distance. But I didn't know anything about farming until I came home."

"And do you never go away from here, go to London for a change and get a dance, and—and all that?" he asked.

She shook her head indifferently.

"No, I never leave the dale. I cannot. My father could not spare me. Has it left off raining yet?"

She went to the front of the shed and looked out.

"No, it is still pelting; please come back; it is pouring off the roof; your hair is quite wet again."

She laughed, but she obeyed.

"I suppose that gentleman, the man in the carriage, was a friend of Sir Stephen's, as he asked the way to your house?"

"I don't know," replied Stafford. "I don't know any of my father's friends. I knew very little of him until last night."

She looked at him with frank, girlish interest.

"Did you find the new house very beautiful?" she asked.

Stafford nodded.

"Yes," he said, absently. "It is a kind of—of palace. It's beautiful enough—perhaps a little too—too rich," he admitted.

She smiled.

"But then, you are rich. And is it true that a number of visitors are coming down? I heard it from Jessie."

"Who is Jessie?" he asked, for he was more interested in the smallest detail of this strange, bewilderingly lovely girl's life than his father's affairs.

"Jessie is my maid. I call her mine, because she is very much attached to me; but she is really our house-maid, parlour-maid. We have very few servants: I suppose you have a great many up at the new house?"

He nodded.

"Oh, yes," he said, half apologetically. "Too many by far. I wish you could, see it," he added.

She laughed softly.

"Thank you; but that is not likely. I think it is not raining so hard now, and that I can go."

"It is simply pouring still," he said, earnestly and emphatically. "You would get drenched if you ventured out."

"But I can't stay here all day," she remarked, with a laugh. "I have a great deal to do: I have to see that the sheep have not strayed, and that the cows are in the meadows; the fences are bad in places, and the stupid creatures are always straying. It is wonderful how quickly a cow finds a weak place in a fence."

Stafford's face grew red, a brick-dust red.

"It's not fit work for you," he said. "You—you are only a girl; you can't be strong enough to face such weather, to do such work."

The beautiful eyes grew wide and gazed at him with girlish amusement, and something of indignation.

"I'm older than you think. I'm not a girl!" she retorted. "And I am as strong as a horse." She drew herself up and threw her head back. "I am never tired—or scarcely ever. One day I rode to Keswick and back, and when I got home Jason met me at the gate and told me that the steers had 'broken' and had got on the Bryndermere road. I started after them, but missed them for a time, and only came up with them at Landal Water—ah, you don't know where that is; well, it is a great many miles. Of course I had a rest coming back, as I could only drive them slowly."

Something in his eyes—the pity, the indignation, the wonder that this exquisitely refined specimen of maidenhood should be bent to such base uses—shone in them and stopped her. The colour rose to her face and her eyes grew faintly troubled, then a proud light flashed in them.

"Ah, I see; you are thinking that it is—is not ladylike, that none of your lady-friends would do it if even if they were strong enough?"

Stafford would have scorned himself if he had been tempted to evade those beautiful eyes, that sweet, and now rather haughty voice; besides, he was not given to evasion with man or woman.

"I wasn't thinking quite that," he said. "But I'll tell you what I was thinking, if you'll promise not to be offended."

She considered for a moment, then she said:

"I do not think you will offend me. What was it?"

"Well, I was thinking that—see here, now, Miss Heron, I've got your promise!—it is not worthy of you—such work, I mean."

"Because I'm a girl?" she said, her lip curving with a smile.

"No," he said, gravely; "because you are a lady; because you are so—so refined, so graceful, so"—he dared not say "beautiful," and consequently he floundered and broke down. "If you were a farmer's daughter, clumsy and rough and awkward, it would not seem to inappropriate for you to be herding cattle and counting sheep; but—now your promise!—when I come to think that ever since I met you, whenever I think of you I think of—of—a beautiful flower—that now I have seen you in evening-dress, I realise how wrong it is that you should do such work. Oh, dash it! I know it's like my cheek to talk to you like this," he wound up, abruptly and desperately.

While he had been speaking, the effect of his words had expressed itself in her eyes and in the alternating colour and pallor of her face. It was the first time in her life any man had told her that she was refined and graceful and flower-like; that she was, so to speak, wasting her sweetness on the desert air, and the speech was both pleasant and painful to her. The long dark lashes swept her cheek; her lips set tightly to repress the quiver which threatened them; but when he had completely broken down, she raised her eyes to his with a look so grave, so sweet, so girlish, that Stafford's heart leapt, not for the first time that morning, and there flashed through him the unexpected thought:

"What would not a man give to have those eyes turned upon him with love shining in their depths!"

"I'm not offended," she said. "I know what you mean. None of your lady-friends would do it because they are ladies. I'm sorry. But they are not placed as I am. Do you think I could sit with my hands before me, or do fancy-work, while things went to ruin? My father is old and feeble—you saw him the other night—I have no brother—no one to help me, and—so you see how it is!"

The eyes rested on his with a proud smile, as if she were challenging him, then she went on:

"And it does not matter. I live quite alone; I see no one, no other lady; there is no one to be ashamed of me."

Stafford reddened.

"That's rather a hard hit for me!" he said. "Ashamed! By Heaven! if you knew how I admired—how amazed I am at your pluck and goodness—"

Her eyes dropped before his glowing ones.

"And there is no need to pity me: I am quite happy, quite; happier than I should be if I were playing the piano or paying visits all day. It has quite left off now."

Half unconsciously he put his hand on her arm pleadingly, and with the firm, masterful touch of the man.

"Will you wait one more moment?" he said, in his deep, musical voice. She paused and looked at him enquiringly. "You said just now that you had no brother, no one to help you. Will you let me help you? will you let me stand in the place of a friend, of a brother?"

She looked at him with frank surprise; and most men would have been embarrassed and confused by the steady, astonished regard of the violet eyes; but Stafford was too eager to get her consent to care for the amusement that was mixed with the expression of surprise.

"Why—how could you help me?" she said at last; "even if—"

—"You'd let me," he finished for her. "Well, I'm not particularly clever, but I've got sense enough to count sheep and drive cows; and I can break in colts, train dogs, and, if I'm obliged, I daresay I could drive a plough."

Her eyes wandered thoughtfully, abstractedly down the dale; but she was listening and thinking.

"Of course I should have a lot to learn, but I'm rather quick at picking up things, and—"

"Are you joking, Mr. Orme?" she broke in.

"Joking? I was never more serious in my life," he said, eagerly, and yet with an attempt to conceal his earnestness. "I am asking it as a favour, I am indeed! I shall be here for weeks, months, perhaps, and I should be bored to death—"

"With your father's house full of visitors?" she put in, softly, and with a smile breaking through her gravity.

"Oh, they'll amuse themselves," he said. "At any rate, I sha'n't be with them all day; and I'd ever so much rather help you than dance attendance on them."

She pushed the short silky curls from her temples, and shook her head.

"Of course it's ridiculous," she said, with a girlish laugh; "and it's impossible, too."

"Oh, is it?" he retorted. "I've never yet found anything I wanted to do impossible."

"You always have your own way?" she asked.

"By hook or by crook," he replied.

"But why do you want to—help me?" she asked. "Do you think you would find it amusing? You wouldn't." The laughter shone in her eyes again. "You would soon grow tired of it. It is not like hunting or fishing or golfing; it's work that tries the temper—I never knew what a fiendish temper I had got about me until the first time I had to drive a cow and calf."

"My temper couldn't be worse," he remarked, calmly. "Howard says that sometimes I could give points to the man possessed with seven devils."

"Who is Mr. Howard?" she asked.

"My own particular chum," he said. "He came down with me and is up at the house now. But never mind Howard; are you going to let me help you as if I were an old friend or a—brother? Or are you going to be unkind enough to refuse?"

She began to feel driven, and her brows knit as she said:

"I think you are very—obstinate, Mr. Orme."

"That describes me exactly," he said, cheerfully. "I'm a perfect mule when I like, and I'm liking it all I know at this moment."

"It's absurd—it's ridiculous, as I said," she murmured, half angrily, half laughingly, "and I can't think why you offered, why you want to—to help me!"

"Never mind!" said Stafford, his heart beating with anticipatory triumph; for he knew that the woman who hesitates is gained. "Perhaps I want to get some lessons in farming on the cheap, or—"

—"Perhaps you really want to help the poor girl who, though she is a lady, has to do the work of a farmer's daughter," she said, in a low voice. "Oh, it is very kind of you, but—"

"Then I'll come over to-morrow an hour earlier than this, and you shall show me how to count the sheep, or whatever you do with them," he put in, quickly.

"But I was going to refuse—very gratefully, of course—but to refuse!"

"You couldn't; you couldn't be so unkind! I'll ride a hunter I've got; he's rather stiffer than Adonis, and better up to rough work. I will come to the stream where we first met and wait for you—shall I?"

He said all this as if the matter were settled; and with the sensation of being driven still more strongly upon her, she raised her eyes to his with a yielding expression in them, with that touch of imploration which lurks in a woman's eyes and about the corners of her lips when for the first time she surrenders her will to a man.

"I do not know what to say. It is absurd—it is—wrong. I don't understand why—. Ah, well," she sighed with an air of relief, "you will tire of it very quickly—after a few hours—"

"All right. We'll leave it at that," he said, with an exasperating air of cheerful confidence. "It is a bargain, Miss Heron. Shall we shake hands on it?"

He held out his hand with the smile which few men, and still fewer women, could resist; and she tried to smile in response; but as his strong hand closed over her small one, a faint look of doubt, almost of trouble, was palpable in her violet eyes and on her lips. She drew her hand away—and it had to be drawn, for he released it only slowly and reluctantly—and without a word she left the shed.

Stafford watched her as she went lightly and quickly up the road towards the Hall, Bess and Donald leaping round her; then, with a sharp feeling of elation, a feeling that was as novel as it was confusing, he sprang on his horse, and putting him to a gallop, rode for home, with one thought standing clearly out: that before many hours—the next morning—he should see her again.