“He’s girthed too tight, I think,” she explained, when she had brought him back and slid to the ground. “He’s a perfect mount, as a rule, but he’s been behaving badly all the way, so I think there must be something wrong.”
She pulled off her gauntlets and lifted the flap, but Roger Lyndesay interposed with a courteous movement.
“Allow me!” he said gently, and she stood aside while he loosened the girths, the horse standing quietly enough, even turning his head to push softly at Roger’s shoulder. And she knew, as she watched, why Deborah’s hands were so like Christian’s.
When he had settled things to his satisfaction, and dropped a last caress on the smooth neck, the old man turned with a smile and gallantly offered his palm to mount her; but she stepped back, shaking her head, the embarrassed colour rising to her eyes.
“Not that!” she said firmly, as he stared in surprise. “I can’t allow you to do that. That sort of thing’s for gentlefolk, Mr. Lyndesay, not for old Steenie Stone’s daughter!”
A faint flush swept over the ivory face, and the proud old back made an effort after its ancient dignity.
“You are Stanley’s widow—Mrs. Lyndesay?” he asked coldly and with a touch of resentment, as if she had entrapped him, helpless, into an impossible situation.
“That’s what they call me here.” Mrs. Slinker nodded, with her hand on the stirrup. “I don’t call myself that, you may be sure, least of all to you, Mr. Lyndesay! You think I’m an interloper, I know, and you’re quite right. I’ve no business at Crump—I know my place well enough for that. There are plenty of folks ready enough to cocker me and tell me I’m a fine lady, but for all that I don’t forget who I am. And I remember you, Mr. Lyndesay, ever since I could walk. You used to come over to my father’s, often, and you always had a look and a kind word for me—then. I can see you now, cantering into the yard on that grand chestnut of yours—they’ve always had chestnuts at Crump, haven’t they?—and all the stable doors flung wide for you to have your pick. You did all the choosing for William Lyndesay, I’ve heard Father say, and he kept a fine stud up at the Hall in those days, didn’t he?”
Old Roger was half-turned to the gate, looking down at the road, but she could tell that he was listening.
“Old days are best, after all, aren’t they?” she went on, with a wistful drop of her voice. “I used to stop up at Dockerneuk when I was a girl—many a happy time I’ve had there; I’ve had nothing like it since. Now I’m stopping at the Hall—it’s queer, isn’t it? My father made a lot of money, you know, and he had me well-educated—when he could get me to leave him and his horses! And when he died, I went abroad for a bit; my sister had married in Canada, and it was pretty lonely for Nettie Stone. I’d known Stanley as a boy, and I came across him again at Taormina—well, we needn’t talk about that, need we? But I’d like you to know that I haven’t forgotten my place. My father thought the world of you and your judgment, and he taught his daughter to do the same. I’ll always have that picture of you, riding into Hundhow, straight as an arrow, on Crump Clever Lass, with all the doors flying open, and my father on the step, smiling and touching his hat. I may seem a rank outsider, Mr. Lyndesay, an impertinent upstart to an aristocrat like you, but I’m touching my hat to you all the time in my heart!”