Stella threw a shilling to the boy who held Black Bess, and with very slight assistance from him, vaulted into the saddle and turned the mare’s head in the direction where her master lay. Black Bess flew like an arrow from a bow, and the journey occupied even less time than in coming. The blood rushed over Stella’s face and neck as she saw, standing in the courtyard of the inn, watching her ride up, the tall, massive figure of Hilary Pritchard, with one arm in a sling, the sun shining on his yellow curls.
Without a word, he helped her to dismount, and entered the coffee-room with her. It was but a little after eight o’clock, and no one was there except a servant, bustling in and out, laying the breakfast things. To her Hilary turned, and begged her not to trouble, as he should not want the meal for a long while yet, and the girl, with a demure nod that was almost a wink, left the room, and contented herself with peeping through the glass upper portion of the door.
Hilary led Stella to a seat and sat beside her, looking down into her lowered face. Until now she had been self-possessed and buoyed up by a determination to carry her mission through. Now she faltered and trembled, hardly daring to look into her lover’s face.
“You will forgive me for borrowing Black Bess?” she said at last.
“Forgive you! What a request! She has never carried a lady before, and never will again any other than you. But won’t your parents be angry with you for coming off here like this? It was my friend the hostler who woke me up to tell me that Miss Cranstoun had borrowed my mare to go into Grayling, and that at the pace she was going she would soon be back. I got up at once—there is nothing the matter with me to-day.”
“You look certainly better than you did yesterday night,” she said, and then stopped short, blushing deeply.
“I know about your goodness in coming to see how I was,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. “Our good genius the hostler told me of it this morning. But, my dear girl, are you wise in coming this morning? It is all so hopeless. Look at the difference between us. It was the height of presumption on my part to dare to fall in love with you; and, indeed, nothing was farther from my intention.”
“I loved you the moment you laid your hand on Zephyr’s bridle and looked up into my face,” she murmured, nestling closer to him, and letting her hand steal into his. “I really wanted to obey you as soon as you spoke to me, but I suppose a spirit of perversity urged me the other way. When you were wounded, I was in an agony of anxiety and remorse; otherwise, I should never have dared to bring you to the house. But all that about our not being equals is done away with now. It is true that I am Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter, but my mother was his first wife, and she was nothing more than a beautiful gypsy, brought up on charity by a rich lady. So you see,” she added, triumphantly, “it is all the other way round, and I am not good enough for you!”
He was silent for a few moments.
“Have you told Lord Carthew what you have told me?” he asked at length.