"I suppose he had a gun with him?" said she, still addressing Frank Meredyth.
"Well, no; he had not," Meredyth confessed, looking somewhat anxious and disconcerted.
"A game-bag, at least? and a dog?" she went on; "or something that entitled you to suspect him?"
"Oh, no, not at all. The truth is, he was simply coming down the strath, and he had nothing under his arm but a walking-stick."
"Oh, indeed," said she; and she drew herself up a little proudly. "Very well. You meet a stranger—no, not a stranger—but one of my friends, whom you have seen under my roof, and he is walking along a public footpath carrying a stick in his hand. Well, and then? I want to know what happens then?"
Meredyth was grievously embarrassed.
"I am afraid there were a few hard words said—and—and I must say for Mr. Ross that he showed great forbearance and self-control. Yes, I must admit that; and also that Fred was rather too—too outspoken. I must say I rather admired Mr. Ross because of his composure; for, indeed, I thought at one time—well, it was a very awkward meeting. When there is bad blood, you see—when one suspects poaching—everything points that way."
"Oh, I am responsible for everything that occurred!" Fred Stanley broke in again, impetuously. "Meredyth had nothing to do with it—nothing at all! And I tell you I spoke plainly. I thought the time for pretence and hypocrisy had gone by; I thought it was time my gentleman-poacher should understand we weren't going to be made fools of any longer. Oh, I spoke plainly enough, if that is what you want to find out!" continued this confident lad, who seemed to be rather vain of his achievement. "I told him we had had quite enough of him about Lochgarra—quite enough of him, and his scringe-nets, and his thieving of salmon, and heaving of stones into the pools. I told him we wanted this place to ourselves now. I recommended him to keep to that small island out there——"
"It is infamous—it is shameless!" said Mary Stanley—and the beautiful, proud face had grown suddenly pale, and there was a curious indignant vibration in her voice. "Do you know what that man has done for me, this very day? What does he value most in the world—what remains to him of all the possessions which his family used to hold—what but the devotion and affection with which these people about here regard him? And he risked it all—for my sake! He took my side—against his own people! They were appealed to by everything that could tempt them; and they had been taught to regard me as their enemy; and who knows what might have happened if he had not stepped in, and confronted them, and said—'No.' He has forgiven the injuries, the irreparable injuries, my family have done him and his; he has met me with friendliness at every turn—and always keeping out of the way and claiming no thanks for it; and now the return he gets is—insult!—and insult that he would scorn to answer." She went on, with increasing indignation: "Shooting and fishing! What do I care for the shooting and fishing! I would rather have every fish in the river and every bird on the hill destroyed than that the disgrace of such ingratitude should have fallen on this house!" She paused—hesitated—her lips began to quiver. "I—I beg your pardon, Mr. Meredyth—I am sorry you should have met with any annoyance to-day." And the next second, and in despite of herself, she had burst into a passionate fit of weeping; while with the proud head bent, her handkerchief covering her eyes, and her frame shaken with sobbing, she left the room. Instantly Käthchen went with her—leaving silence behind.
It was about half an hour thereafter that the dinner-gong sounded upward from the big, empty, echoing hall. Käthchen came down to the drawing-room.