There was an expressive silence for a moment or two, and then Major Kinnaird looked at the others.
“I know nothing about the first incident, but I think that Miss Stirling could have gone a little further when she described the last one,” he said. “My daughter, who was badly injured, would probably have been left another day on the range, without food or any attention, if it had not been for the courage and endurance the man displayed. I wish to say, however, that I had no idea he was any connection of Mr. Weston’s until this moment.”
Ida’s heart warmed toward Kinnaird. Reserved and formal as he was, the man could be honest, and it was evident that his few quiet words had made almost as deep an impression as the outbreak to which she had been impelled. There was another rather awkward silence; and then Weston, who seemed to have forgotten the others, made a little abrupt movement.
“What had my son to do with you?” he asked.
The question was flung at Kinnaird, but Ida saw that it was a relief to him when she answered it.
“My father hired him. He was our camp-packer, the man who set up the tents, made the fires, and poled the canoes,” she said.
Weston stood up and, looking hard at Kinnaird, straightened himself. His face was an unpleasant red, and there was badly-suppressed anger in his eyes.
“Time is getting on, and we have rather a long drive,” he said. “I may ask Miss Stirling’s leave to call on her later. In the meanwhile, if Mrs. Kinnaird will excuse us——”
His hostess made no attempt to keep him; and, as he moved away, his daughter stopped for a moment beside Ida’s chair.
“I don’t know whether what you have done was excusable or not, but you have, at least, succeeded in making the breach between Clarence and his father wider than ever,” she said. “That was probably what you intended?”