“You wish to reassure your people?”
“I do.”
“If she would only say who they are!” he thought, but she did not.
They could only converse when the wind lulled, which was not very often; it blew straight in their faces over the bare level land, and he had some trouble in recognizing the landmarks in the white obliteration of the always featureless landscape, and in avoiding the barbed wire fencing which had many a day cost him many an angry oath as he had hunted over those pastures.
“I used to be a good deal in this country,” he said, as they at last left the wide level fields for a high road, and which was less exposed to the wind. “I used to hunt with the Vale of Thorpe hounds. I do not hunt anywhere now; and I have nothing now to bring me into the county since my cousin, Lord Roxhall, sold his place.”
“Vale Royal?”
“Yes? Do you know it?”
“I have seen it.”
“A fine old place, the biggest beeches in England, and a herd of wild cattle equal to the Chillingham. I only wish one of the red bulls would gore the wretched cad who has bought it, or perhaps in strict justice the bulls ought first to have gored Roxhall.”
She did not reply; she was walking as easily and quickly as ever, though it was the fourth mile, and the cold of the bleak sunless day grew more intense as the hours wore away.