“And if there has, can you blame me?  You cast me aside—­you sacrificed me to your father’s honour.  You had done with me,” her voice vibrated with the bitterness which had been her portion for so many dreary months.  “Was the world, my life, to cease from that time forth?  For you there was—­someone else, wealth, rank—­for me was there to be nothing, no consolation, no part or lot in life!  Yes, there is one—­one who is both good and noble, and—­”

She broke down and covering her face with her hands turned away.  Stafford stood as if turned to stone; as if he had lost the sense of sight and hearing.  Silence reigned between them; the dogs who had been sitting watching them, rose and shivering, whined complainingly, as if they were asking what was amiss.

It was the woman—­as always—­who first relented and was moved to pity.  She moved to the motionless figure and touched him on the arm.

“Forgive me!  I—­I did not mean to wound you; but—­but you drove me too hard!  But—­but it is true.  We cannot undo the past.  It is there, as solid, as unmovable, as that mountain:  and it is between us, a wall, a barrier of stone.  Nothing can remove it.  You—­you will remember your honour, Stafford?” Her voice quavered for a moment but she steadied it.  “You—­you will not lose that, though all else be lost?  You will go to her?”

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.”