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Updated: June 3, 2025
"It takes a good deal to keep up a place of this kind, and, until Major Kinnaird came, it's some time since anybody seriously attempted it." "Ah!" said Ida. "Mr. Weston's means are insufficient?" "It's a tolerably open secret. There are a good many people similarly situated. A small and badly-kept estate is not a lucrative possession." "Then why don't they keep it up efficiently?"
"Still we shall spend some time at the house in the north of England you once heard Major Kinnaird mention." There was no doubt that this shot had reached its mark, for she saw his little abrupt movement. Then he turned toward her fully, which he had not done for the last minute or two. "Miss Stirling," he said, with a faint flush in his face, "I am going to ask you a rather curious thing.
The morning broke clear and still across the scented bush, and Miss Kinnaird and Ida Stirling, who had been awakened early by the wonderful freshness in the mountain air, strolled some distance out of camp.
Ida, however, was getting used to the lights and the music, the gleam of gems, the confused hum of voices, and the rustle of costly draperies, and, though she admitted that she liked it all, they no longer had the same exhilarating effect on her. She danced with one or two men, and then, as she sat alone for a moment, Gregory Kinnaird crossed the room toward her.
There was fear in the little lady's eyes. "Where are they?" she asked. Weston stepped forward limping, and his face was set and gray. "Up yonder, and quite safe," he said. "Miss Kinnaird has hurt her knee. Nothing serious, but it hurts her to walk. I came for the Indians to help her down again." He raised his hand restrainingly. "There is no cause for alarm.
"Can't you persuade these people not to go, Miss Stirling?" he asked. The girl smiled. "No," she said, "I think you ought to recognize that." "Then can't you make some excuse, for stopping behind with Mrs. Kinnaird?" "Why?" Weston made a little gesture. "It will probably be a tough climb. I'd rather you didn't go."
"He appears prudently reticent on the subject of his relations, and if he has any in Canada, it's evident that he isn't proud of them. Still, I haven't abandoned the amiable intention of extorting a little more information from him." A week had passed when Weston, who apparently had some business with Kinnaird, drove over to Scarthwaite again.
Weston fancied that he looked at him rather hard; but, though the unexpected news had filled him with dismay, he sat very still until Kinnaird, who said nothing further, turned away. Then Grenfell looked up with a smile. "The major," he said, "has perhaps had sufficient fishing, or his precipitation may be due to the fact that Mrs. Kinnaird is not in some respects a friend of yours.
During the winter, for greater quiet, a room was assigned to him in another house near Kinnaird; a consideration which met with the award: "My bower is the most polite of bowers, refusing admittance to no wind that blows." And about this same time he wrote, growling at his fare: "It is clear to me that I shall never recover my health under the economy of Mrs. Buller."
Just then there was a rattle of wheels outside, and a minute or two later a little full-fleshed man, with a heavy face, in conventional dress, entered the hall. He greeted those who stood about, when he had shaken hands with Kinnaird. "Sorry I'm a little behind," he apologized. "Had to post over. I told Walters at the George to keep me the black mare.
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