“Indeed, sir—I—I—”
“ ’Tis honestly come by!” pleadingly. “Come, Mr. Chilter, you’ll not hurt my feelings by refusing? You will keep it in remembrance of a man—a fat man, Mr. Chilter—who rudely jerked you on to the road?”
The clerk took it with unsteady fingers.
“I thank you most—”
“Nay, I beg of you. ’Tis I thank you for aiding me so kindly. … Come and see my Jenny! Well, lass?” For the mare at the first sound of his voice had turned in her loose-box, and was whinnying and pawing the ground eagerly.
“I do not understand, sir, anything: how it is that you are a highwayman, or why you have honoured me with your confidence—why you should trust me. But—thank you.”
As he spoke, Mr. Chilter placed his hand in my lord’s, and for the second time in his life, felt the pressure of those firm, kindly fingers.
“Why, your honour! Ye’ve lost your emerald!”
“No, Jim. I gave it away.”
“Ye—ye gave it away, sir?”
“M’m. To the small spider.”
“B-but—”
“And he called me fat, too.”
“Called ye fat, sir?” asked the man, bewildered.
“Yes. Very fat. By the way, let me tell you that I bought Jenny at Fittering today from the naughty ruffian who waylaid Mr. Bumble Bee.” He proceeded to give Jim a sketch of what had transpired below. When he had finished the man shook his head severely.
“I doubt ye’ll never learn wisdom, sir,” he scolded.
“I? What have I done?”
“What did ye want to tell it all to the spider man for, sir? ’Twas most incautious of ye. Like as not, he’ll split to the fat gentleman, and we’ll have the whole town at our heels.”
“Which just shows all you know of the small spider,” replied his master calmly. “Hand me the powder.”
III
Introducing the Hon. Richard Carstares
Wyncham! A stately old house with mullioned windows, standing high on its stone terraces, half-covered by creepers; a house surrounded by lawns, rolling down on the one side to a river that rippled and murmured its way along beneath overhanging trees and a blue sky, over boulders and rocks, so clear and sparkling that the myriad pebbles could be seen deep down on its bed.
In the other direction, the velvet lawns stretched away till they met the orchards and the quiet meadowland.
On two sides the house had its terraces, very white in the sunshine, with stone steps leading down to a miniature lake where water-lilies grew, and where the tiny fish darted to and fro unconcernedly.
Flagged walks there were, running between flower beds a riot of colour, and solemn old trees that had stood there through all the years. Cool woodland lay beyond the little river, carpeted with dark moss, where in spring the primroses grew. So thick was the foliage of the trees that the sun but penetrated in uneven patches.
Up the terrace walls crept roses, yellow and red, pink and white, and tossed their trailing sprays across the parapet. Over the walls of the house they climbed, mingling with purple clematis, jasmine, and sickly honeysuckle. The air was heavy with their united perfumes, while, wafted from a bed below, came the smoky scent of lavender.
The old house seemed half asleep, basking in the sunlight. Save for a peacock preening its feathers on the terrace steps, there was no sign of life. …
The old place had harboured generations of Carstares. Earl had succeeded Earl and reigned supreme, and it was only now that there was no Earl living there. No one knew where he was. Scarce a month ago one died, but the eldest son was not there to take his place. For six years he had been absent, and none dared breathe his name, for he disgraced that name, and the old Earl cast him off and forbade all mention of him. But the poor folk of the countryside remembered him. They would tell one another tales of his reckless courage; his sweet smile and his winning ways; his lightheartedness and his never-failing kindness and good-humour. What a rider he was! To see him sit his horse! What a swordsman! Do ye mind the time he fought young Mr. Welsh over yonder in the spinney with half the countryside watching? Ah, he was a one, was Master Jack! Do ye mind how he knocked the sword clean out o’ Mr. Welsh’s hand, and then stood waiting for him to pick it up? And do ye mind the way his eyes sparkled, and how he laughed, just for the sheer joy o’ living?
Endless anecdotes would they tell, and the old gaffers would shake their heads and sigh, and long for the sight of him again. And they would jerk their thumbs towards the Manor and shrug their old shoulders significantly. Who wanted Mr. Richard for squire? Not they, at least. They knew he was a good squire and a kindly man, but give them Master John, who would laugh and crack a joke and never wear the glum looks that Mr. Richard affected.
In the house, Richard Carstares paced to and fro in his library, every now and again pausing to glance wretchedly up at the portrait of his brother hanging over his desk. The artist had managed to catch the expression of those blue eyes, and they smiled down at Richard in just the way that John was always wont to smile—so gaily, and withal so wistfully.
Richard was twenty-nine, but already he looked twice his age. He was very thin, and there were deep lines on his good-looking countenance. His grey eyes bore a haunted, careworn look, and his mouth, though well-shaped, was curiously lacking in determination. He was dressed soberly, and without that touch of smartness that had characterised him six years ago. He wore black in memory of his father, and it may have been that severity, only relieved by the lace at his throat, that made his face appear so prematurely aged. There
