At Love's Cost

He looked at her, his breath coming thick and painfully.

"My God! you--you are hard--" he broke out at last.

"I--am just! Oh, my dearest, my dearest!" She took his hand and laid it

against her cheek, her lips. "Don't you see how much it costs me to

send you away? But I must! I must! Go--oh, go now! I--I cannot bear

much more!"

His hand--it shook--fell softly, tenderly on her head.

"God forgive me for the wrong I have wrought you, the tears I have

caused you!" he said, hoarsely. "Yes, I daresay you're right, and--and

I'll go! Let me see you go back to the house--One kiss, the last, the

last! Oh, Ida, Ida, life of my life, soul of my soul!"

He caught her to him, and she lay in his arms for a moment, her lips

clung to his in one long kiss, then she tore herself away from him and

fled to the house.

Stafford went on to The Woodman, where Mr. Groves was surprised, and,

it need scarcely be said, overjoyed to see him. To him, the young man

was still "Mr. Stafford," and he eyed him with an amazed and respectful

admiration; for though Stafford had never been a weakling, he had grown

so hard and muscular and altogether "fit" that Mr. Groves could not

refrain from expressing his approval.

"Ah, there is nothing like roughing it, Mr. Stafford, sir," he said. "I

can tell in a minute when a man's 'hard' right through, and been doing

square and honest work. It seems strange to us commoner people that you

gentle folks should be so fond of going through all sorts of hardships

and perils just for the fun of it; but, after all, it's not to be

wondered at, for that's the kind of spirit that has helped Englishmen

to make England what it is. But you're looking a little pale and worn

to-night, sir. I've no doubt it's the want of dinner. If I'd known

you'd been coming--but you know I'll do my best, sir."

He did his best, and Stafford tried to do justice to it; but it was

almost impossible to eat. And he checked the almost overmastering

desire to drink.

Ida had been right. He knew it, though the thought did not help to

allay his bitterness. She had spoken the truth: he was still pledged to

Maude. Mr. Falconer had paid the price demanded, and it was not his

fault if it had failed to save Sir Stephen from ruin; the sacrifice

Stafford had made had, at any rate, saved his father's good name from

shame and reproach. Maude's father had performed his part of the

bargain; Stafford had still to perform his. Ida was right; she had

pointed out to him his duty, and if there was a spark of manliness left

in him, he must do it.