“Oh, it is not Fido. It’s the little black pug, Rupert. And she’s so delicate. An hour of this keen wind, if she is out of doors, might kill the poor, wee doggie.”
Oliphant of Muirhouse gave a muttered curse, for, to his finger-tips, he was a man, his instincts primitive when they were touched. Then he laughed gently, for his soul’s health, and got from saddle, and stooped to kiss Lady Royd’s hand.
“You do not know me, Lady Royd, in this dim light? I’m Oliphant of Muirhouse, and I bring Rising news.”
Sir Jasper’s wife put a hand to her breast. The movement was quick, and another than Oliphant might easily have missed it in this dim light; but now his task grew harder, for he knew that, apart from pet-dog whimsies, she loved her husband.
“Is he safe, Mr. Oliphant?” she asked, bridging all usual courtesies of greeting.
“Hale and well. I saw him three days since, and he sent messages to you, knowing I had errands here in Lancashire.”
Lady Royd, easy for the moment because her good man did not happen to be lying dead among the ditches of her nightmares, grew almost roguish. “And his heart, sir? Is it sound, too? There are so many pretty women in the south—I know, because I lived there once, before I came to these bleak hills that frighten me.”
Oliphant sought for some way of breaking news better left untold. “You to fear rivalry?” he said, in his low, pleasant voice. “Sir Jasper has known you all these years——”
“Precisely. And the years have left their mark. You need not dwell on that, Mr. Oliphant.”
“I meant that, to have known you all these years—why, it explains the lover-like and pressing messages he sent by me.”