CHAPTER II.
STELLA.
By half-past six Lord Carthew and Hilary, having finished their improvised meal, strolled down the country road together, smoking, glad to stretch their legs after being so long in the saddle.
The former especially was in high glee because of mine host’s deferential manner toward Hilary when he was told by Claud that his name was Lord Carthew.
“Until that moment, as you saw,” he exclaimed, “the eggs and bacon and cold beef were supposed to be quite good enough for us. But as soon as the good man found that you had what cockneys call ‘a handle to your name,’ he promptly started profuse and tiresome apologies. It’s such a relief to have that sort of rubbish lavished on you instead of on me.”
“I think you make an absurd fuss about trifles,” observed Hilary, calmly.
One great reason for the warm affection cherished by “mad Lord Carthew” for his friend was Hilary’s utter absence of either arrogance or toadyism. The sturdy Yorkshire independence of young Pritchard never degenerated into the roughness which sometimes characterizes Northerners. He was proud of his family in his way. The Pritchards had farmed their own land for over two hundred and fifty years, and their present homestead had been built in the days of Elizabeth. Lord Carthew had had to make the first advances toward friendship, but once he had succeeded in winning Hilary’s respect and liking, the latter was too sensible to withdraw proudly from his companionship because he was not his equal in social position.
“You worry about things, trifles as it seems to me, in such an extraordinary way,” he said. “Now this evening, what can be pleasanter than this scene, the little wood by the roadside, where every tree is budding into leaf, the primroses in yellow patches among the ground ivy, and that fresh, delicious smell of spring in the air? I’m thankful I was sent away from home to Harrow and Oxford, and an accountant’s office in London. I suppose if I’d never left the country I should never have seen any beauty in it.”
“You would have felt it, but would have been unable to put it into words,” returned his friend. “Let’s explore this wood a bit, and see where it leads to.”
They struck in over the moss under the young trees. Straight ahead of them, as they pushed their way through the branches, they saw a high, precipitous bank, crowned by a low stone wall, and beyond more trees.
“That will be Sir Philip Cranstoun’s place again, I suppose,” observed the Viscount. “He’s got a good bit of land enclosed about here.”