At Love's Cost. Charles Garvice
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