The big horse thundered on. Despite her peril, Mary did not fail to notice how strong and brown and capable the stranger's hands looked. . . . It was all done so quickly and easily as to rob the episode of romantic danger--two hands, warm and tender, and yet firm as a steel trap, grasped the girl's slender wrists, she was floated lightly from the saddle, and in the next instant she was swaying dizzily on her feet in the road. The pride and courage of the Dashwoods availed nothing now--it was but a mere woman who fell almost fainting by the roadside.
She opened her eyes presently to the knowledge that a strong arm was supporting her. A bright blush mounted to her proud, beautiful face. The colour deepened as she saw the look, half admiration, half amusement, on the face of her rescuer.
"Mr. Darnley," she stammered. "I--I hardly expected to see you here. A little over two years ago, in Paris, you saved my life before."
"It is good to know that you have not forgotten it," Ralph Darnley murmured. "And yet the coincidence is not so strange as it seems. I did not come to these parts moved by any unaccountable impulse--I simply had business here. And I was told that a walk through the park would repay me for my trouble. As I was making a start out, through a copse I saw your predicament and hastened to your assistance. A handy tree did the rest. The only strange part of the affair is that you should be here, too."
"Nothing strange about that," the girl smiled, "seeing that the Hall is my home."
It was a commonplace statement of facts, and yet the words seemed to hurt Ralph Darnley as if they had been lashes to sting him. The honest open brown face paled perceptibly under its tan hue. A dozen emotions changed in those clear brown eyes.
"I--I don't quite understand," he remarked. "When we met in Paris two years ago, Miss Mary Mallory----"
"Quite so. Mary Dashwood Mallory. But, you see, the head of the family was alive then. He died nearly two years ago without any children, in fact, his only son died years ago somewhere abroad--it was a rather sad story--and my father came into the title and estates. He is Sir George Dashwood now. You can quite see why he changed his name."
"Of course. Only you can see that I could not possibly know this. What a grand old place it is, and what a grand old house! You must have grown very fond of it."
"I love it," Mary Dashwood cried. The look of haughty pride had faded from her face, leaving it refined and beautiful. "I love every stick and stone of it, it is part of my very life. You see, I have practically lived here always. As my father was in the Diplomatic Service, and my mother died young, it was necessary for somebody to look after me. I spent my childhood here with old Lady Dashwood, who has now gone to the dower house--such a wonderful old body!"