“I’m going,” said the tramp calmly, rising and moving off. “I haven’t far to go now. Oh, if I had only known!”
Thus he limped away, still wiping his eyes with the ragged handkerchief; and if the county constable had chanced to pass the spot that night, the toll-keeper would certainly have warned him to look after the mad old man, as he thought him. As it was, he got leave to go on to the town, and further. On the north side of the place, and but half a mile from the toll, Frearton Hall stood within its own grounds. There was a lodge at the entrance, kept by the gamekeeper already alluded to, but if the tramp entered there, he had opened the gate and walked in unseen. The dinner at the hall was just over when one of the servants brought a message, which she whispered into the ear of the young laird.
“Wants to see me? Who is he? Did he give no name?” he was heard hurriedly to say.
“No, sir; and he’s such an awful-like man—just like a tramp or a beggar,” answered the girl.
“A tramp? Oh, I see! Is he old and white-haired?” said the gentleman, remembering the scene at the toll-keeper’s house, and the queer character he had assisted there. “Excuse me; I’ll be back in a minute,” he said to the others in the room; and he ran out, expecting to find the man in the hall.
“He wouldn’t come in; he said he’d wait outside,” said the girl, noticing her young master’s look of disappointment. “P’r’aps he’s away by this time.”
The young laird stepped briskly through the hall and looked out into the dusk. The sun had just set, and there was still light enough to see any one near the spot. At the head of the walk leading to the house there was a clump of laurels and a drooping ash, and Stephen Barbour fancied he saw a white-haired head look out from behind that, and quickly cleared the space to find his suspicions correct. The queer tramp stood before him, with his right hand hidden down among the rags by his side.
“Oh, it’s you again?” said the gentleman frankly, at the same time extending his hand to be shaken.
“You’re Stephen Barbour, eldest son of Russel Barbour, aren’t you?” said the tramp, taking no notice of the proffered hand, and glaring on the young man with a ferocity which startled the other.
“I am, sir—what then?”