“Then that settles it!” he said, rising and laying the paper on the table. “You will be able to give me an account of the day’s sport. The meet is at ten, I believe.” And, drawing himself slowly to his great height, he walked shakily but with restored serenity from the room.
When he had gone, Deborah picked up the note once more, and turned it over. Christian had never sent them a hunt-notice, and she knew well enough what delicacy of feeling had prompted the omission. She did not need the scribbled “R. Lyndesay, Esq.” in Callander’s hand to tell her that the note was Callander’s and not theirs.
“I doubt I’ve only made things worse!” he said apologetically, joining her by the fire. “But it satisfied him for the time being, and that was the chief thing, wasn’t it? He’ll have forgotten all about it by to-morrow, and you needn’t go.”
“I’ll have to go,” Deb said wearily, dropping the note into the fire. (There must be no risk over that “R. Lyndesay.”) “He might forget anything else in the world, but not a thing like that. It doesn’t matter. You were very kind and quick, and it comforted him. Anything was better than seeing him cry!” He caught the gleam of tears in her own eyes as she leaned against the mantelpiece in the firelight. “You couldn’t possibly know what you were letting me in for, and after all, it only serves me right.” She laughed shortly, drawn out of her reserve by the intimacy of the dusk. “I’ve made a nice mess of things for him,—poor old dad! This will happen again, of course; and you won’t be there another time to label Christian’s notes!”
He was silent, wondering how far it was safe to follow her lead. By now, most of the local gossip had come round to him—(he was that silent type of man with whom people are apt to let their tongues run loose)—and he knew what was said of the girl who had engaged herself to Slinkin’ Lyndesay, merely to be mistress of Crump. Instinctively he felt that there was something in the background, some powerful motive in the strong, self-contained nature that never gave a hint or made appeal for pity. He had had a gentle mother, and clinging, backboneless sisters, now married, and the stubborn, still strength of this young creature standing alone roused in him a sudden impulse of chivalrous admiration. He would back her if he could, but it behoved him to walk warily, for she would be helped by nobody, and she would reveal nothing.
“Then you will go?” he repeated at last, returning to the point on which he had fallen silent, sure of that ground at least.
“Oh, yes, I shall go!” she threw at him recklessly. “It’s a special meet, so half the neighbourhood will be there, and they will have such a painful time, poor things, pretending not to know me! Will Mrs. Lyndesay have me turned off the drive, do you think? At least I can take refuge in the middle of the pack! They’ll be glad enough to welcome me, and old Brathay will see me through.”
Her voice was terribly bitter, and Callander stirred uncomfortably, thankful for the deepening twilight.
“But you will go with me, won’t you?” he asked, rather awkwardly. “I shall be there, of course, and I had hoped for the pleasure of escorting you. I had meant to ask you, in any case. We could wait for hounds at the top lodge,” he added innocently, and was taken aback when she faced round on him like a young tigress.
“If I go, I go alone!” she told him, passionately. “Straight across the park and into the thick of the crowd! You mean well, I know, but do you think I’ll crawl to Crump steps at the back of a stranger? The invitation was yours, remember,—not mine; so I must go unasked, since my father wishes it. I can take my place with the rag, tag and bobtail. At least I have a standing invitation from the dead!” She dropped her head on her arms. “If only Stanley were here!” she added bitterly. “You’d none of you dare to be ‘kind’ to me, then,—you wretched Samaritans!”