At Love's Cost

Stafford smiled rather absently; he was scarcely listening; he was so

accustomed to Howard's cynical diatribes that more often than not they

made no more impression on him than water on a duck's back. Besides, he

was thinking of Ida Heron, the girl whose strange history he had just

been listening to.

There was silence for a minute or two, and while they stood leaning

against the door-way two men came out of another door in the inn and

stood talking. They were commercial travellers, and they were enjoying

their pipes--of extremely strong tobacco--after a hard day's work.

Presently one of them said: "Seen that place of Sir Stephen Orme's on the hill? Splendacious, isn't

it? Must have cost a small fortune. I wonder what the old man's game

is."

The other man shook his head, and laughed.

"Of course he's up to some game. He wouldn't lay out all that money for

nothing, millionaire as he is. He's always got something up his sleeve.

Perhaps he's going to entertain some big swell he wants to get into his

net, or some of the foreign princes he's hand-in-glove with. You never

know what Sir Stephen Orme's up to. Perhaps he's going to stand for the

county; if so, he's bound to get in. He always succeeds, or, if he

don't, you don't hear of his failures. He's the sort of man Disraeli

used to write about in his novels. One of the chaps who'd go through

fire and water to get their ends; yes, and blood too, if it's

necessary. There's been some queer stories told about him; they say he

sticks at nothing. Look at that last Turkish concession."

The speaker and his companion sauntered down the road. Stafford and

Howard had heard every word; but Stafford looked straight before him,

and made no sign, and Howard yawned as if he had not heard a syllable.

"Do you raise any objection to my going to my little bed, Stafford?" he

asked. "I suppose, having done nothing more than clamber about a river,

get wet through, and tramp a dozen miles over hills, you do not feel

tired."

"No," said Stafford, "I don't feel like turning in just yet.

Good-night, old man."

When Howard had gone Stafford exchanged his dress-coat for a

shooting-jacket, and with the little wallet in his pocket and his pipe

in his mouth, he strode up the road. As he said, he did not feel

tired--it was difficult for Stafford, with his athletic frame and

perfect muscular system, to get tired under any circumstances--the

night was one of the loveliest he had ever seen, and it seemed wicked

to waste it by going to bed, so he walked on, all unconsciously going

in the direction of Heron Hall. The remarks about his father which had

fallen from the bagman, stuck to him for a time like a burr: it isn't

pleasant to hear your father described as a kind of charlatan and

trickster, and Stafford would have liked to have collared the man and

knocked an apology out of him; but there are certain disadvantages

attached to the position of gentlemen, and one of them is that you have

to pretend to be deaf to speeches that were not intended for your ears;

so Stafford could not bash the bagman for having spoken disrespectfully

of the great Sir Stephen Orme.