’Married!  Ah, that is a good thing.  He will take care of you, if he is an honest man.’

‘I thought he was an honest man, but he has turned out to be an earl,’ answered Mary, proudly.  ‘My husband is Lord Hartfield.’  ‘Hartfield—­Hartfield,’ the old man repeated, feebly.  ’Surely I have heard that name before.’

There was no violence in his manner, nothing but imbecility:  so Lord Hartfield made up his mind that Mary was right, and that the old man was quite harmless, worthy of all compassion and kindly treatment.

This was the same old man whom he had met on the Fell in the bleak March morning.  There was no doubt in his mind about that, although he could hardly see the man’s face in the shadowy corridor.

‘Come,’ said the man, ’come with me, my dear.  You forgot me, but I have not forgotten you.  I mean to leave you my fortune.  Come with me, and I’ll show you your legacy.  It is all for you—­every rupee—­every jewel.’

This word rupee startled Lord Hartfield.  It had a strange sound from the lips of a Westmoreland peasant.

‘Come, child, come!’ said the man impatiently.  ’Come and see what I have left you in my will.  I make a new will every day, but I leave everything to you—­every will is in your favour; But if you are married you had better have your legacy at once.  Your husband is strong enough to take care of you and your fortune.’

‘Poor old man,’ whispered Mary; ‘pray let us humour him.’

It was the usual madman’s fancy, no doubt.  Boundless wealth, exalted rank, sanctity, power—­these things all belong to the lunatic.  He is the lord of creation, and, fed by such fancies, he enjoys flashes of wild happiness in the midst of his woe.

‘Come, come, both of you,’ said the old man, eagerly, breathless with impatience.

He led the way across the sacred threshold, looking back, beckoning to them with his wasted old hand, and Mary for the first time in her life entered that house which had seemed to her from her very childhood as a temple of silence and mystery.  The passage was dimly lighted by a little lamp on a bracket.  The old man crept along stealthily, looking back, with a face full of cunning, till he came to a broad landing, from which an old staircase, with massive oak banisters, led down to the square hall below.  The ceilings were low, the passages were narrow.  All things in the house were curiously different from that spacious mansion which Lady Maulevrier had built for herself.

A door on the landing stood ajar.  The old man pushed it open and went in, followed by Mary and her husband.

They both expected to see a room humble almost to poverty—­an iron bedstead, perhaps, and such furniture as the under servants in a nobleman’s household are privileged to enjoy.  Both were alike surprised at the luxury of the apartment they entered, and which was evidently reserved exclusively for Steadman’s uncle.