The man recognized her and touched his cap. She stopped him at once.
“Are you going to the house?” she asked. “Have you a message for some one? And has anything happened?”
“Well, miss, the fact is that Lord Carthew, one of the young gentleman as was staying up at the Chase, we think as he’d got a bit of fever over his wound, for about two o’clock this afternoon in he staggers to the inn-yard all alone, and pale as a co’pse. ‘Hullo, my lord, is it you?’ I begins, being the first to see him, when he cuts me short like, telling me it ain’t his name, and that he’s called plain Mr. Pritchard. Then he orders me to saddle Black Bess at once, and be quick about it. I thought he looked a bit queer and feverish, so I makes a long job of it, but I had to get it through at last. When mounted, he was that weak he could hardly hold the reins, but he chucks me a sovereign and rides out of the yard, sitting as upright as you or me could do—begging your pardon, miss. I felt sort of anxious about him, but I’d a deal of work on hand, being market-day in Grayling, when about an hour later who should come clattering back into the yard but bonny Black Bess, with her master hanging half unconscious over her neck, and his shoulder all covered with blood, owing to his wound having broken out again. I never did see a sensibler animal nor that mare. It’s my belief that Lord Carthew had nothing to do with it, but that that there animal’s own instinct told him to make the best of his way back to us. My master, he wanted to drive his lordship back here to the Chase, miss; but Lord Carthew, he was conscious by that time, and he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Send for a doctor,’ he said; ‘any one about here will do. Let him patch up this wretched scratch so that I can get on with my journey to London.’ So, as they couldn’t spare me, our boy was sent to Grayling in the cart to fetch Dr. Netherbridge, as has been settled in the town twenty years or more, and is a very good doctor as doctors go, though I don’t much believe in ’em myself. The boy he couldn’t find the doctor at first, and when at last he brings him, his lordship was pretty bad, particular when he was called by his own name. Dr. Netherbridge he takes the boss aside and asks him a few questions. Then he says, ‘Send some sensible person to the Chase to inform Lord Carthew’s friend of his condition.’ Says the boss, hemming and ha’ing, ‘Sir Philip’s my landlord,’ he says, ‘and I don’t want to be party to nothing that’ll put his back up. He’s a very difficult gentleman to deal with.’ Says Dr. Netherbridge, with a queer sort o’ smile to himself like, ‘I don’t need to be told,’ says he, ‘of what Sir Philip Cranstoun is like. I’ve had some dealings with him a good many years ago. Don’t send a message by a boy,’ he says, ‘but by some one you can trust.’ With that the boss asks me to do the office, as I ain’t specially afraid of anything, living or dead, miss, saving your presence, and away I comes.”
They were nearing the lodge gates now, Stella having turned in that direction as soon as the man had arrived at his recital of what had befallen Hilary.
“I will come with you,” she said, in tones that allowed of no opposition. “I must see how he is. He is my mother’s guest, and it was partly my fault that the accident happened to him. He stopped my horse last night, thinking it was running away with me, and one of the keepers fired to frighten him and accidentally hit him. And what he says about his name is not a proof of fever, but perfectly true. Lord Carthew, his friend, had changed names with him in jest; his name is Mr. Hilary Pritchard.”
“Well, young gentlemen are up to queer larks certainly,” the man observed, but Stella’s manner did not encourage him to talk, and she walked so fast that it was all he could do to hasten his slow, bow-legged, stableman’s gait sufficiently to keep up with her.
Dusk was falling fast as they reached the inn. Before the door stood the light cart in which the doctor had arrived, ready for his return journey. Already Stella was beginning to feel nervous and self-conscious, as she noted the curious glances of the farming folk gathered under the old-fashioned arched entrance to the yard. The bar stood on one side of the building, the coffee-room on the other; the latter room was empty as Miss Cranstoun was shown into it, and she glanced around in some curiosity. It was a low-ceilinged apartment of considerable antiquity, but marred and vulgarized by a cheap varnished paper above the dark wood wainscoting round the walls, by flaming gas-jets, the light from which flickered on colored prints of racing scenes and tradesmen’s calendars, and by a small, mean fireplace, totally inadequate to the size of the room.
A man’s gloves and walking-stick lay on the long wooden table, stained with the rings left by glasses and pots, and almost as soon as Stella entered the room a gentleman came in hastily to claim them.
The newcomer was short and pale, with brown hair and beard plentifully streaked with gray, and a face redeemed from plainness by thoughtful and penetrating blue eyes.
He came in with his hat on, but at sight of Stella he removed it, exclaiming as he did so, in evident surprise: