"How long ago?" inquired Kate, indirectly helping him; "a week?"
"No," said Lieutenant Stanford, coolly carving his cold ham; "nearly five."
Every one stared. Kate looked blankly amazed.
"Impossible!" she exclaimed; "five weeks since you landed in New York? Surely not."
"Quite true, I assure you. The way was this—"
He paused and looked at Rose, who had spilled a glass of wine, trying to lift it, in a hand that shook strangely. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks scarlet, her whole manner palpably and inexplicably embarrassed.
"Four, weeks ago, I reached Canada. I did not write you, Kate, that I was coming. I wished to give you a surprise. I stopped at Belleplain—you know the town of Belleplain, thirty miles from here—to see a brother officer I had known at Windsor. Travelling from Belleplain in a confounded stage, I stopped half frozen at an old farm-house six miles off. Next morning, pursuing my journey on foot, I met with a little mishap."
He paused provokingly to fill at his leisure a glass of sherry; and Doctor Danton watching Rose under his eyelashes, saw the colour coming and going in her traitor face.
"I slipped on a sheet of ice," continued Mr. Stanford. "I am not used to your horrible Canadian roads, remember, and strained my ankle badly. I had to be conveyed back to the farm-house on a sled—medical attendance procured, and for three weeks I have been a prisoner there. I could have sent you word, no doubt, and put you to no end of trouble bringing me here, but I did not like that; I did not care to turn Danton Hall into a hospital, and go limping through life; so I made the best of a bad bargain and stayed where I was."
There was a general murmur of sympathy from all but Sir Ronald and Rose. Sir Ronald sat like a grim statue in granite; and Rose, still fluttering and tremulous, did not dare to lift her eyes.