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or pushed on at redoubled speed. Stephen kept up with him, his lips twitching.
"Why did you separate us?" he broke out at last, in a low, bitter voice.
And yet he knew why--or suspected! But the inner smart was so great he could not help the reproach.
"I tried to act for the best," said Meynell, after a moment, his eyes on the ground.
Stephen watched his friend uncertainly. Again and again he was on the point of crying out--
"Tell me the truth about Hester!"--on the point also of warning and informing the man beside him. But he had promised his father. He held his tongue with difficulty.
When they reached the spot where Stephen's path diverged from that which led by a small bridge across the famous trout-stream to Sandford Abbey, Stephen suddenly halted.
"Why shouldn't I come too? I'll wait at the lodge. She might like to ride home. She can sit anything--with any saddle. I taught her."
"Well--perhaps," said Meynell dubiously. And they went on together.
Presently Sandford Abbey emerged above the road, on a rising ground--a melancholy, dilapidated pile; and they struck into a long and neglected evergreen avenue leading up to it. At the end of the avenue there was an enclosure and a lodge, with some iron gates. A man saw them, and came out to the gate.
"Sir Philip's gone abroad, sir," he said, affably, when he saw them. "Shall I take your card?"
"Thank you. I prefer to leave it at the house," said Meynell shortly, motioning to him to open the gate. The man hesitated, then obeyed. The Rector went up the drive, while Stephen turned back a little along the road, letting his horse pasture on its grassy fringe. The lodge keeper--sulky and puzzled--watched him a few moments and then went back into the house.
* * * * *
The Rector paused to reconnoitre as he came in sight of the house. It was a strange, desolate, yet most romantic spot. Although, seen from the road and the stream, it seemed to stand on an eminence, it was really at th