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There would, of course, be reproaches, but it seemed probable that there would be a word or two of half-contemptuous advice as well, and she felt reasonably sure what this would be. Weston of Scarthwaite had, no doubt, suggested that the man of whom she had spoken so favorably would be a fool if he did not marry her.
Nobody seemed to know who first built Scarthwaite Hall, though many a dalesman had patched it afterward and pulled portions of it down. It was one of the ancient houses, half farm and half stronghold, which may still be found in the north country. They were, until a few decades ago, usually in possession of the Statesmen who worked their own land.
Ida Stirling had spent some time in England when, one autumn evening, she descended the wide oak staircase of Scarthwaite Hall at Scarthwaite-in-the-Forest. There was no forest in the vicinity, though long ago a certain militant bishop had held by kingly favor the right of venery over the surrounding moors, and now odd wisps of straggling firs wound up the hollows that seamed them here and there.
A trace of color crept into her face, and, seeing that there was a certain diffidence in her companion's manner, she felt that she hated Weston of Scarthwaite. It was, however, evident that silence would be too suggestive just then. "I didn't make a promise, after all," she said. "Are you afraid that I gave your people a wrong impression about you?"
"Have you ever heard anything further from Scarthwaite?" she asked. Weston fumbled in his pocket. "I had a letter only a few days ago." He took it out and handed it to her, with a little smile which he could not help, though he rather blamed himself for indulging in it. "As you know the place and met my sister, you may enjoy reading it. Julia's unusually communicative.
It was clear that Scarthwaite Hall had been built in those days of foray, for one little, ruined, half-round tower rose from the brink of a ravine whose sides the hardiest of moss-troopers could scarcely have climbed. A partly filled-in moat led past the other, and in between stretched the curtain wall which now formed the facade of the house itself.
He lived in a little town not far away, and let Scarthwaite for the shooting when he could, which explains how Major Kinnaird had taken it. Ida looked about her as she came down the stairway. It led into a dark-paneled, stone-arched hall, which, since habitable space was rather scarce at Scarthwaite, served as general living-room.
"I wonder whether you would be surprised to hear that I spent a month or two at Scarthwaite Hall?" Weston did not seem exactly astonished, but he was clearly disconcerted and off his guard. "I heard that you did," he said. "Then you know that I met your father and sister and didn't keep my promise, or, at least, that I didn't do what you wanted me to?" "Yes," said Weston simply.
Scarthwaite faced toward the west, and she looked out across a deep, green valley toward the sweep of upland and heather moor that cut black and solemn against a paling saffron glow. It was very still, though now and then a bleating of sheep rang sharply out of the wisps of mist that streaked the lower meadows.
Instead, he let that waterworks chief navvy fellow have her. The horse he gave me would hardly face Scarside Rise." One or two of the guests smiled, for the navvy in question was a rather famous engineer who had had a difference of opinion with Weston over certain gravel he desired to quarry on the Scarthwaite estate. Then Mrs. Kinnaird stepped forward, and they went in to dinner.
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