Reynolds was touched on his tender spot. The sternness left his voice, and with bare head he said sadly:
"Ay, ma'am, in truth it is a sad sight to see the Lord of Ripon living in the cottage that was once the home of his groom—for my father kept the gate here for forty years."
"Lord Brompton has not yet come home?" asked Mrs. Carey, for it was she, though she knew he had not.
"No, ma'am; he hasn't yet come out on the cliff walk. I can see him with this glass—as I saw you," he added, explaining his presence.
Mrs. Carey gave a grim little smile in the dark.
"You would like to see the lodge, perhaps, ma'am, inside as well as out?"
"Yes; I should like it very much; but I ought not to venture now. Lord Brompton might return, and I should not wish him to know I had been here for the world. I am overjoyed to know that he has at least one friend who is faithful to him," and she held out her white hand to the old man.
She said this so graciously that old Reynolds was carried off his feet. This fine patronage sent him back to his young manhood, when he was whipper-in to the old Earl's foxhounds, and heard such voices and saw such upright ladies in the hunting-field.
"Come in, my lady," he said, glancing at the cliff path; "he cannot reach here under half an hour. You can see all there is to be seen of the poor place in a few minutes."
The old man led, and she followed toward the lodge.