This was what Stafford wanted.
"Yes," he said. "I was poaching. I mistook it for the Lesset water. I must go over and apologise to Mr. Heron. By the way, I was told I was poaching by a young lady who rode down to the stream while I was fishing. I had some little conversation with her, but I did not learn her name. She was a young lady with dark hair, rode a big horse, and had a couple of dogs with her—a collie and a fox-terrier." The landlord had nodded assentingly at each item of the description.
"That must have been Miss Ida—Miss Heron, the squire's daughter, sir," he said.
Stafford's brows went up.
"No wonder she stared at me," he said, almost to himself. "But are you sure? The young lady I saw was not dressed, well—like a squire's daughter, and she was looking after some sheep like—like a farmer's girl."
The landlord nodded again.
"That was Miss Ida, right enough, sir," he said, with a touch of respect, and something like pride in his tone. "Indeed, it couldn't be anyone else. No doubt Miss Ida had come down to look after the sheep in the valley; and there's no farmer's daughter in the vale that could do it better, or half so well, as she. There isn't a girl in the county, or, for that matter, a man, either, who can ride like Miss Ida, or knows more about the points of a horse or a dog—yes, and you may say a cow—than the squire's daughter. And as to her being poorly dressed—well, there's a reason for that, sir. The family's poor—very poor."
"Yet the dale seems to be called after them?" Stafford remarked.
"It is, sir!" assented the landlord. "At one time they owned more land than any other of the big families here; miles and miles of it, with some of the best farms. But that was before my time, though I've heard my father tell of it; there's not very much left now beyond the dale and the home meadows." He sighed as he spoke and looked sadly at the costly cigar which he was smoking. The feudal spirit still exists in the hearts of the men who were born in these remote dales and towering hills, and the landlord of the little inn was as proud of the antiquity of the Heron family, and as sorry for its broken fortune as any villein of the middle ages could have been for the misfortunes of his feudal baron.
"Heron Hall used to be a fine place at one time, sir. I can remember my father describing what it was in his and his father's days; how there used to be scores of servants, and as many as fifty horses in the stables; with the great place filled with guests summer and winter, spring and autumn. The Squire Heron of that time never rode behind less than four horses, and once, when he was high sheriff, he rode to meet the judges with six. It was open house to every poor man in the place, and no wanderer was ever turned from the door. The squire of my father's time was the county member, and the day he was elected there were two hogsheads of port and two of brandy broached on the lawn in front of the terrace; and for a week afterwards there was scarcely a sober man in the town for miles round. He was master of the hounds, and the hunt breakfasts and the hunt balls were more splendid than anything else of that kind in the kingdom; in fact, people used to come from all parts of the kingdom to attend them. Yes, the Herons made Herondale famous, as you may say, sir."