He looked at her, his breath coming thick and painfully.
"My God! you—you are hard—" he broke out at last.
"I—am just! Oh, my dearest, my dearest!" She took his hand and laid it against her cheek, her lips. "Don't you see how much it costs me to send you away? But I must! I must! Go—oh, go now! I—I cannot bear much more!"
His hand—it shook—fell softly, tenderly on her head.
"God forgive me for the wrong I have wrought you, the tears I have caused you!" he said, hoarsely. "Yes, I daresay you're right, and—and I'll go! Let me see you go back to the house—One kiss, the last, the last! Oh, Ida, Ida, life of my life, soul of my soul!"
He caught her to him, and she lay in his arms for a moment, her lips clung to his in one long kiss, then she tore herself away from him and fled to the house.
Stafford went on to The Woodman, where Mr. Groves was surprised, and, it need scarcely be said, overjoyed to see him. To him, the young man was still "Mr. Stafford," and he eyed him with an amazed and respectful admiration; for though Stafford had never been a weakling, he had grown so hard and muscular and altogether "fit" that Mr. Groves could not refrain from expressing his approval.
"Ah, there is nothing like roughing it, Mr. Stafford, sir," he said. "I can tell in a minute when a man's 'hard' right through, and been doing square and honest work. It seems strange to us commoner people that you gentle folks should be so fond of going through all sorts of hardships and perils just for the fun of it; but, after all, it's not to be wondered at, for that's the kind of spirit that has helped Englishmen to make England what it is. But you're looking a little pale and worn to-night, sir. I've no doubt it's the want of dinner. If I'd known you'd been coming—but you know I'll do my best, sir."
He did his best, and Stafford tried to do justice to it; but it was almost impossible to eat. And he checked the almost overmastering desire to drink.
Ida had been right. He knew it, though the thought did not help to allay his bitterness. She had spoken the truth: he was still pledged to Maude. Mr. Falconer had paid the price demanded, and it was not his fault if it had failed to save Sir Stephen from ruin; the sacrifice Stafford had made had, at any rate, saved his father's good name from shame and reproach. Maude's father had performed his part of the bargain; Stafford had still to perform his. Ida was right; she had pointed out to him his duty, and if there was a spark of manliness left in him, he must do it.