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As he spoke, Mr. Chilter placed his hand in my lord's, and for thesecond time in his life, felt the pressure of those firm, kindlyfingers.
"Why, your honour! Ye've lost your emerald!"
"No, Jim. I gave it away."
"Ye--ye _gave_ it away, sir?"
"M'm. To the small spider."
"B-but--"
"And he called me fat, too."
"Called ye fat, sir?" asked the man, bewildered.
"Yes. Very fat. By the way, let me tell you that I bought Jenny atFittering to-day from the naughty ruffian who waylaid Mr. Bumble Bee."He proceeded to give Jim a sketch of what had transpired below. When hehad finished the man shook his head severely.
"I doubt ye'll never learn wisdom, sir," he scolded.
"I? What have I done?"
"What did ye want to tell it all to the spider man for, sir? 'Twas mostincautious of ye. Like as not, he'll split to the fat gentleman, andwe'll have the whole town at our heels."
"Which just shows all you know of the small spider," replied his mastercalmly. "Hand me the powder."
CHAPTER III
INTRODUCING THE HON. RICHARD CARSTARES
Wyncham! A stately old house with mullioned windows, standing high onits stone terraces, half-covered by creepers; a house surrounded bylawns, rolling down on the one side to a river that rippled and murmuredits way along beneath overhanging trees and a blue sky, over bouldersand rocks, so clear and sparkling that the myriad pebbles could be seendeep down on its bed.
In the other direction, the velvet lawns stretched away till they metthe orchards and the quiet meadowland.
On two sides the house had its terraces, very white in the sunshine,with stone steps leading down to a miniature lake where water-liliesgrew, and where the tiny fish darted to and fro unconcernedly.
Flagged walks there were, running between flower beds a riot of colour,and solemn old trees that had stood there through all the years. Coolwoodland lay beyond the little river, carpeted with dark moss, where inspring the primroses grew. So thick was the foliage of the trees thatthe sun but penetrated in uneven patches.
Up the terrace walls crept roses, yellow and red, pink and white, andtossed their trailing sprays across the parapet. Over the walls of thehouse they climbed, mingling with purple clematis, jasmine, and sicklyhoneysuckle. The air was heavy with their united perfumes, while, waftedfrom a bed below, came the smoky scent of lavender.
The old house seemed half asleep, basking in the sunlight. Save for apeacock preening its feathers on the terrace steps, there was no sign oflife....
The old place had harboured generations of Carstares. Earl had succeededEarl and reigned supreme, and it was only now that there was no Earlliving there. No one knew where he was. Scarce a month ago one died, butthe eldest son was not there to take his place. For six years he hadbeen absent, and none dared breathe his name, for he disgraced thatname, and the old Earl cast him off and forbade all mention of him. Butthe poor folk of the countryside remembered him. They would tell oneanother tales of his reckless courage; his sweet smile and his winningways; his light-heartedness and his never-failing kindness andgood-humour. What a rider he was! To see him sit his horse! What aswordsman! Do ye mind the time he fought young Mr. Welsh over yonder inthe spinney with half the countryside watching? Ah, he was a one, wasMaster Jack! Do ye mind how he knocked the sword clean out o' Mr.Welsh's hand, and then stood waiting for him to pick it up? And do yemind the way his eyes sparkled, and how he laughed, just for the sheerjoy o' living?
Endless anecdotes would they tell, and the old gaffers would shake theirheads and sigh, and long for the sight of him again. And they would jerktheir thumbs towards the Manor and shrug their old shoulderssignificantly. Who wanted Mr. Richard for squire? Not they, at least.They knew he was a good squire and a kindly man, but give them MasterJohn, who would laugh and crack a joke and never wear the glum looksthat Mr. Richard affected.
In the house, Richard Carstares paced to and fro in his library, everynow and again pausing to glance wretchedly up at the portrait of hisbrother hanging over his desk. The artist had managed to catch theexpression of those blue eyes, and they smiled down at Richard in justthe way that John was always wont to smile--so gaily, and withal sowistfully.
Richard was twenty-nine, but already he looked twice his age. He wasvery thin, and there were deep lines on his good-looking countenance.His grey eyes bore a haunted, care-worn look, and his mouth, thoughwell-shaped, was curiously lacking in determination. He was dressedsoberly, and without that touch of smartness that had characterised himsix years ago. He wore black in memory of his father, and it may havebeen that severity, only relieved by the lace at his throat, that madehis face appear so prematurely aged. There was none of his brother'sboyishness about him; even his smile seemed forced and tired, and hislaughter rarely held merriment.
He pulled out his chronometer, comparing it with the clock on themantelpiece. His pacing took him to the door, and almost nervously hepulled it open, listening.
No sound came to his ears. Back again, to and fro across the room,eagerly awaiting the clanging of a bell. It did not come, but presentlya footfall sounded on the passage without, and someone knocked at thedoor.
In two strides Richard was by it, and had flung it wide. Warburton stoodthere.
Richard caught his hand.
"Warburton! At last! I have been waiting this hour and more!"
