“I can’t see where you are to blame. It was my stupid blundering into private property in the course of an evening stroll with my friend that was the origin of the mischief, and our officious interference during your ride. But your man was certainly too free with his powder and shot. Have you had him in your service long?”
“Four or five years. He is very clever with dogs and horses. My father has a special dislike against tramps, and Stephen, in his over-zeal just now, was only obeying orders. The men are all told to frighten away intruders from the grounds by any means in their power.”
“Still it’s rather drastic to shoot any chance stranger,” he suggested; “especially as I have heard that the Chase is a very interesting old historical mansion, and likely to attract antiquarians.”
“People say that,” she answered, thoughtfully. “But I can never see anything to admire in it myself. It is called mediæval, which makes me feel sorry for the Middle Ages.”
“You have the most wonderful legends in your family—have you not?—connected with your motto, ‘Cranstoun, Remember!’ I am greatly interested in antiquarian researches, and my family—I mean Lord Carthew’s family—being connected by marriage with your mother’s, has made the hunting out of these tales of interest to me.”
“Is Lord Carthew related to my mother?” she asked, with interest. “She will be very glad to welcome him and you also. You have not told me your name?”
“Oh! it is so entirely undistinguished as to be hardly worth mentioning. Claud Pritchard, farmer, from Yorkshire, on a short and last tour with my old college friend before leaving England to try and make my fortune in Canada.”
“Indeed!” she said. “You don’t look in the least like a farmer. But here is the Chase.”
The great, gloomy pile stood before them, occupying a considerable space of land, but hemmed in so closely with trees that its full dimensions were somewhat lost on the spectator. Lights burned here and there in the windows, but the whole impression given by the ivy-hung, gray stone building was one of prison-like silence and solitude.
Stephen Lee’s sturdy ringing of the deep-toned bell brought a man servant in sombre livery to the door, who, after exchanging a few words with the young gamekeeper, descended the broad, shallow steps between the grim-visaged stone wolves that guarded the entrance, and offered to assist Hilary into the house. Miss Cranstoun meanwhile had disappeared into the house. As Lord Carthew and his friend entered it, she returned to greet them on the threshold, accompanied by a portly, gray-haired man of between fifty and sixty, to whom she was rapidly explaining the situation.