"Come now, Mr. Moore," she said, with the utmost good-nature, "you make too much of that little mistake. You are far too afraid of ridicule. But I am going to put it all right for you."

What was his astonishment and consternation to see her, after she had laid her rod on the shingle, deliberately walk a yard or two into the shallow water, and then throw herself down into it for a second, while she held out her hand to him.

"Pull me out, Mr. Moore!" she said.

"Good heavens, Miss Honnor!" he exclaimed--but instantly he caught her hand, and she rose to her feet and began to shake the water from her as best she might. "What do you mean?"

"You've pulled me out of the river," said she, laughing, as she shook her dripping sleeves and kicked her skirts; and then she went on, coolly, to explain, "I know you are rather sensitive to ridicule, and you don't like to think of those people telling the story against you as to how you fell into the Geinig Pool. Very well; there needn't be any such story. If any one asks you how you came to be so wet, you can say I got into the water, and you pulled me out. It will sound quite heroic."

"So I am to have the credit of having saved your life?" he said.

"You needn't put it that way," she answered, as she took up the fishing-rod and resumed her homeward walk. "All kinds of accidents are continually happening to people who go salmon-fishing, and no one takes any notice of them. My maid is quite used to getting my things dried--whether they're soaked through with rain or with river-water doesn't much matter to her. And old Robert can take your clothes to the fire in the gun-room long before the gentlemen come back from the hill.

So, you see, there will probably be no questions asked; but, if there should be, you have what is quite enough of an explanation."

"Well, Miss Honnor," said he, "I never heard of such a friendly act in all my life--such a gratuitous sacrifice; here you have risked getting your death of cold in order to save my childish vanity from being wounded. Really, I don't know how to thank you--though I wish all the same you had not put me under such a tremendous obligation. But don't imagine that I am going to claim--that I am going to steal--the credit of having saved your life--I am not quite so mean--no, if I am asked, I will tell the whole truth--"

"And make two people ridiculous, instead of one?" she said, with a smile. "No, you can't do that."

However, as it turned out, this Quixotic act of consideration was allowed to remain a dark secret between these two. With the brisk walking and the warm, sunlit air around them, their clothes were already drying; and when old Robert met them, in the dusky chasm at the foot of the Bad Step, he was far too much engaged with the fish to notice their limp and damp garments; while again, as they resumed their march, he, carrying the fish, lagged in the rear, and thus they escaped his keen eyes. Indeed, by the time they reached the Lodge, and as Miss Honnor was about to enter, Lionel said to her that he felt quite warm and comfortable, and proposed to go for a further walk down the strath before dinner; but she peremptorily forbade this and ordered him off to his own room to get a change of clothes.

It is not to be imagined that an incident of this kind could do aught but sink deep into the mind of any young man, and especially into the mind of a young man who had particular reasons for wanting to know how this young lady was affected towards him. She herself had made light of the matter; it had been merely a sudden impulse, born of her own abundant good-nature; probably she would have done as much for Percy Lestrange. But _would_ she have done as much for Percy Lestrange? Lionel kept asking himself. He was vain enough to think she would not. Who had been her _protege_ all this time? To whom had she given un.o.btrusive little hints when she thought these might be useful? In whose exploits and triumphs and failures had she shown an exceptional interest and sympathy? Whom had she permitted to go fishing with her on those long days when the world seemed to belong to the two of them? Whom had she admitted into the little dell above the Geinig Pool which was her chosen and solitary retreat? And he could not but reflect that while there were plenty of women who were eager to present him with silver cigarette-cases, blue and white flower-jars, and things of that kind, there was not one of them, as he believed, who would dip her little finger in a bottle of ink for his sake. More than that, which of them would herself have dared ridicule in order to save him from ridicule?

And in what light should he regard this suddenly prompted action on her part, which seemed to him so bewildering at the time, but which she appeared to look on as only a sort of half-humorous freak of friendship?

These speculations only came back to the original question, or series of questions, that had already puzzled him. Why should he set such store by her opinion?--why be so anxious to please her?--why be so proud to think that he had won some small share of favorable regard? It was not his ordinary att.i.tude towards women, who troubled him rather, and interfered with his many interests and the calls of his professional duties.

Falling in love?--that could hardly be it; he felt no desire whatever to go down on his knees before her and swear by the eternal stars. Besides, she was so far away from him--living in such a different sphere--among occupations and surroundings and traditions entirely apart from his.

Falling in love?--with the isolated, the unapproachable fisher-maiden, the glance of whose calm hazel eyes would be death to any kind of theatrical sentiment? It was all a confusion and a perplexity to him; but at least he was glad to know that he would sit at the same table with her that night at dinner, and, thereafter, perchance, have some opportunity of talking to her in the drawing-room, where a certain incident, known to themselves alone, would serve as a sort of secret tie. And he was cheered to remember that, although he was leaving this still and beautiful neighborhood (where so many strange dreams and fancies and new and welcome experiences had befallen him), he was not bidding good-bye to all of these friends forever. Miss Honnor Cunyngham would be in Brighton in November; and Brighton was not so far away from the great city and the dull, continuous, thunderous roar that would then be all around him.

CHAPTER XIII.

A NEW EXPERIENCE.

Was it possible in the nature of things that Prince Fortunatus should find his spirits dashed with gloom--he whose existence had hitherto been a long series of golden moments, each brighter and more welcome than the other; Even if he had to leave this still and beautiful valley where he had found so much gracious companionship and so many pleasant pursuits, look what was before him; he was returning to be greeted with the applause of enthusiastic audiences, to be sought after and courted and petted in private circles, to find himself talked about in the newspapers, and his portraits exhibited in every other shop-window--in short, to enjoy all the little flatteries and attentions and triumphs attaching to a wide and not ill-deserved popularity. And yet as he sat at this farewell luncheon on the day of his departure, he was the only silent one among these friends of his, who were all chattering around him.

"I'm sure I envy you, Mr. Moore," said his charming hostess, "going away back to the very centre of the intellectual world. It will be such a change for you to find yourself in the very midst of everything--hearing about all that is going on--the new books, the new plays, the new pictures. I suppose that in October there are plenty of pleasant people back in town; and perhaps the dinner-parties are all the more enjoyable when you know that the number of nice people is limited. One really does get tired of this mental stagnation."

"I wish, Mr. Moore," said Lady Rosamund, rather spitefully (considering that her brother was present), "you would take Rockminster with you. He won't go on the hill, and he's no use in the drawing-room. I am certain at this minute he would rather be walking down St. James Street to his club."

"I don't wonder at it!" cried Miss Georgie Lestrange, coming gallantly to the apathetic young man's rescue. "Look how he's situated. There's Sir Hugh and my brother away all day; Lord Fareborough has never come out of his room since the morning he tried deer-stalking; and what can Lord Rockminster find to arouse him in a pack of girls? Oh, I know what he thinks of us," she continued, very placidly. "I remember, if he chooses to forget. Don't you recollect, Rose, the night we were constructing an ideal kingdom by drawing up a list of all the people we should have banished? Every one had his or her turn at saying who should be expelled--people who come late to dinner, people who fence with spiked wire, people who talk in theatres, people who say 'like he does,'

and so forth; and when somebody suggested 'all young women who wear red veils,' Lord Rockminster immediately added, 'and all young women who don't wear red veils.' Now you needn't deny it."

"Excuse me, I'm sure I never said anything of the kind; but it's not of the least consequence," Lord Rockminster observed, with perfect composure. "Anything to please you poor dears. You understand well enough why I linger on here--just to give you young creatures a chance of sharpening your wits on me. You wouldn't know what to do without me."

"Rockminster is going to give the world a volume of poems," said Lady Rosamund, who seemed to be rather ill-tempered and scornful this morning. "n.o.body could stare at the clouds and hills as he does without being a poet. When he does burst into speech it will be something awful."

"Have you your flask filled?" said that much-bepestered young man, calmly turning to Lionel.

"Oh, yes, thanks."

"When you get to Invershin," his lordship continued, thoughtfully, "you can telegraph to the Station Hotel at Inverness what you want for dinner. No soup; I make it a rule never to take soup in a big hotel; a friendly manager once warned me in confidence. You'll be glad to have a bit of white fish after so much grilse and sea-trout."

"Oh, I'll take my chance," Lionel said; it was not dinner that was occupying his thoughts.

There was a sound of horses' hoofs and carriage wheels; the wagonette was being brought round to the front door.

"I consider it very shabby of Honnor not to have stayed to say good-bye," Lady Adela said to her departing guest. "She might have given up one morning's fishing, I think, especially as you have been such an a.s.siduous attendant--carrying her things for her, and keeping her company on those long excursions--"

"Oh, don't be afraid," said Miss Georgie, with a bit of a covert laugh.

"Honnor won't forsake her friend like that. I'll bet you she won't be far from the Horse's Drink when Mr. Moore has to cross the stream."

"If I were you," Lord Rockminster finally said, in a confidential undertone, as they all rose from the table, "I would telegraph about dinner."

How Lionel hated the sight of this open door, and the wagonette, and the portmanteau up beside the coachman!

"Good-bye, Mr. Moore," said the pleasant-mannered young matron to him, as she took his hand for a moment. "I'm afraid it has been awfully dull for you--"

"Lady Adela!" he said.

"But the next time you come we shall try to be less monotonously bucolic. Perhaps by then the phonograph will be able to bring us a whole musical evening from London, whenever we want it--a whole performance of an operetta--"

"Offenbach in a Highland valley!" he exclaimed.

"No," she said, very quietly and graciously; "but perhaps something by the composer of 'The Squire's Daughter'--and there might be in it an air as delightful as that of 'The Starry Night.' Oh, Mr. Moore, don't let them produce any other piece at the New Theatre until we all get back to London again! Well, good-bye--it's so kind of you to have taken pity on us in this wilderness--"

"If you knew how sorry I am to go, Lady Adela!" he said. "And will you say good-bye for me to Miss Cunyngham?"

"You needn't bother to leave a message," said Miss Georgie, with significant eyes. "You'll find she won't be far away from the Horse's Drink."

And as it chanced, Miss Georgie's forecast (whether inspired by a saucy impertinence or not) proved correct. Lionel, having bade farewell to all these friends, got into the wagonette; and away the carriage went--quietly, at first, over the soft turf and stones--to the river. Of course he looked out. Yes, there was Miss Honnor--fishing the Whirl Pool--with old Robert sitting on the shingle watching her. Would she notice?--or would he get down and walk along to her and claim the good-bye she had forgotten? The next moment he was rea.s.sured. She caught sight of the approaching wagonette; she carefully placed her rod on the shingle, and then came walking along the river-bank, towards the ford, at which the horses had now arrived.

Even at a distance he could not but admire the grace and ease and dignity of her carriage--the harmonious movement of a perfectly formed figure; and as she drew nearer he kept asking himself (as if the question were necessary) whether he would be able to take away a keen mental photograph of those fine features--the clear and placid forehead, the strongly marked eyebrows, the calm, self-reliant eyes, the proud and yet not unsympathetic lines of the mouth. She came nearer; a smile lit up her face; and there was a kind of radiance there, he thought. He had leaped down from the wagonette: he went forward to meet her; her hand was outstretched.

"I am sorry you are going," she said, frankly.

"And I am far more sorry to have to go," said he, and he held her hand a little longer than there was any occasion for, until she gently withdrew it. "There are so many things I should like to say to you, Miss Honnor; but somehow they always escape you just when they're wanted; and I've told you so often before that I am not likely to forget your kindness to me up here--"

"Surely it is the other way about!" she said, pleasantly. "You have come and cheered up my lonely hours--and been so patient--never grumbled--never looked away up the hill as if you would have given your life to be after the grouse; and in the drawing-room of an evening you've always sung when I asked you--when I was inconsiderate enough to ask you--"

"My goodness! Miss Honnor," he said, "if I had known you looked on it in that light, I should have sung for you constantly, whether you asked or not."

"Well, it's all over now," said she, "and I hope you are taking away with you a pleasant memory of Strathaivron."

"I have spent the happiest days of my life here," he said; and then he hesitated--was about to speak--hesitated again--and finally blurted out, "Is there anything I can do for you in London, Miss Honnor?"

"No, thanks," she said. "By the way, you'll have an hour or two in Inverness. You might go in to Mr. Watson's and ask him to send me out a few more flies--if you have plenty of time, that is."