“You’re dreamin’, Brathay! Why, the darlin’s simply dote on engines. I’ve never been out with them yet but they’ve gone steamin’ full lick for the line whenever a train came along. Laker, tell him I won’t be bullied!”
“Do you good!” Christian smiled, nodding to the old keeper; and the sounds of violent altercation followed him as he led the way to the kennels. Brathay and Larrupper were joyful enemies of long standing.
“I remember now!” Callander said suddenly, as they reached the door. “I saw a picture of you somewhere in wrestling-kit—one of the papers, I forget which—and your nickname—‘Lakin’’ Lyndesay, isn’t it? I thought I knew your face.”
“That’s it.” Christian looked uncomfortable. “Some bounder caught me with a camera, I suppose. It’s a good game——” He broke off abruptly. “You remember old Rosebud, of course, Deborah?”
He spoke the name stiffly but with determination, definitely sealing their distant relationship and their slight but ancient acquaintance. “The Lyndesays stood by you!” she found herself quoting inwardly, as she caressed the old hound, and took the puppies in her arms, while Christian pointed out the alterations in the buildings. Callander, who had an artist’s eye, looked with interest from the quiet young master to the bright face of the kneeling girl lifted above the soft heads of white and tan. He remembered Christian well enough, now—had heard of him at Grasmere, at Olympia, at the Highland Games. It was a curious record for a son of so proud and ancient a family, but perhaps it was better than the one left by his brother. Already his ears were filled with the gossip running rife in the countryside, and, watching the clear eyes and the brave bearing of the heroine of the drama, he wondered greatly where the truth of the matter lay. Not in the mere sordid love of riches, surely, nor in the foolish, flattered vanity of youth? Behind, he felt, was something deeper, out of reach.
There was no sign of Larrupper when they came out, and Brathay, with a grim face, his fingers shut upon a lordly tip, explained that he had evicted him without ceremony; whilst Larry, who had instructed him thereto, chuckled with Machiavellian glee as he raced homeward.
“I will walk back with you, if I may,” Christian said, opening the little gate of the stile. “Shall we go by the park?” And when Deb hesitated—“Why, surely you don’t prefer the road, do you?” he added, in surprise.
She did not answer—she could not tell him she had never set foot in the park since the day of Stanley’s death—and while she stood silent, Callander bade them good-bye and struck off towards the marsh. Christian kept his hand on the gate.
“There will be frost to-night,” he said, looking over the land. “The deer will be making for the buckhouse. The beeches are stripping fast, and the river is like glass. Do you really prefer the road?”
Did she? She walked beside him over the springy turf, while the red ball of the sun dipped towards the bay, wondering why every channel of love should be always first and foremost a channel of pain. The quiet of the old woods etched black against the yellow sky caught her by the throat. The silver river smote her like a sword. The homing rooks called the heart out of her. And the land—the green, good homeland around and beneath her—ah! did she prefer the road?