“I had him begging for mercy,” explained his lordship as he rode along. “I was on his land for half an hour before he would come within speaking distance. Come along. I need a drink.”
Young Mr. Shaw came to the road in due time and paused, after his climb, to rest on a stone at the wayside. He was still a mile from home and in the loneliest part of his domain. The Bazelhurst line was scarcely a quarter of a mile behind him. Trees and underbrush grew thick and impenetrable alongside the narrow, winding road; the light of heaven found it difficult to struggle through to the highway below. Picturesque but lonely and sombre indeed were his surroundings.
“Some one coming?” he said aloud, as Bonaparte pricked up his ears and looked up the road. A moment later a horse and rider turned the bend a hundred yards away and came slowly toward him. He started to his feet with an exclamation. The rider was a woman and she was making her way leisurely toward the Bazelhurst lands.
“Lady Bazelhurst, I'll bet my hat,” thought he with a quiet whistle. “By George, this is awkward. My first trespasser is in petticoats. I say, she's a beauty—a ripping beauty. Lord, Lord, what do such women mean by giving themselves to little rats like Bazelhurst? Oh, the shame of it! Well, it's up to me! If I expect to make good, I've just got to fire her off these grounds.”
Naturally he expected to be very polite about it—instinctively so; he could not have been otherwise. The horsewoman saw him step into the middle of the road, smiling oddly but deferentially; her slim figure straightened, her colour rose, and there was a—yes, there was a relieved gleam in her eyes. As she drew near he advanced, hat in hand, his face uplifted in his most winning smile—savouring more of welcome than of repellence.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “doubtless you are not aware that this is proscribed land.”
“Then you are Mr. Shaw?” she asked, checking her horse with premeditated surprise and an emphasis that puzzled him.
“Yes, madam,” he responded gravely, “the hated Shaw. Permit me,” and he politely grasped the bridle rein. To her amazement he deliberately turned and began to lead her horse, willy nilly, down the road, very much as if she were a child taking her first riding lesson.
“What are you doing, sir? she exclaimed sharply. There was a queer flutter of helplessness in her voice.
“Putting you off,” he answered laconically. She laughed in delight and he looked up with a relieved smile. “I'm glad you don't mind. I have to do it. These feuds are such beastly things, you know. One has to live up to them whether he likes it or not.”