They prepared to ride on: Mr. Blake-Gordon's horse was restive. The young ladies wished each other good morning he bowed and lifted his hat. He had not spoken a word to her, or she to him. They had simply stood there face to face, he on horseback, she on foot, with the tale-telling emotion welling up from their hearts.
Mary opened the churchyard gate, went in, and sat down under a remote tree near the tomb of the Castlemaines, hiding her face in her hands. She felt sick and faint; and trembled as the young green leaves about her were trembling in the gentle wind. So! this was the manner of their meeting again: when he was riding by the side of another!
The noise of horses, passing by, caused her to raise her head and glance to the road again. Young Mountsorrel was riding swiftly past to catch his sister, having apparently lingered temporarily behind: and the groom clattered closely after him at a sharp trot.
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
GOING OVER IN THE TWO-HORSE VAN.
August weather. For some few months had elapsed since the time of the last chapter. Stilborough lay hot and dusty under the summer sun: the pavements shone white and glistening, the roads were parched. Before the frontage of the Turk's Head on the sunny side of Cross Street, was spread a thick layer of straw to deaden the sound of horses and vehicles. A gentleman, driving into the town a few days before, was taken ill there, and lay at the hotel in a dangerous state: his doctor expressed it as "between life and death." It was Squire Dobie, of Dobie Hall.
The Turk's Head was one of those good, old-fashioned, quiet inns, not much frequented by the general public, especially by the commercial public. Its custom was chiefly confined to the county families, and to that class of people called gentlefolk. It was, therefore, very rarely in a bustle, showing but little signs of life except on Thursdays, market-day, and it would sometimes be so empty that Stilborough might well wonder how Will Heyton, its many years landlord, contrived to pay his expenses. But Will Heyton had, in point of fact, made a very nice nest-egg at it, and did not much care now whether the inn was empty or full.
In the coffee-room on this hot August morning, at a small table by the right-hand window, sat a gentleman breakfasting. A tall, slender, well-dressed young man in slight mourning, of perhaps some six-and-twenty years. He was good-looking; with a pleasing, fair, and attractive face, blue eyes, and light wavy hair that took a tinge of gold in the sunlight. This gentleman had arrived at Stilborough the previous evening by a cross-country coach, had inquired for the best hotel, and been directed to the Turk's Head. It was late for breakfast, nearly eleven o'clock: and when the gentleman--whose name was inscribed on the hotel visitors' list as Mr. George North--came down he had said something in a particularly winning way about the goodness of the bed causing him to oversleep himself. Save for him, the coffee-room was void of guests.
"Is this a large town?" he inquired of the portly head waiter, who was partly attending on him, partly rubbing up the glasses and decanters that were ranged on the mahogany stand by the wall.
"Pretty well, sir. It's next in size to the chief county town, and is quite as much frequented."