We had returned from a ride.  Romayne had gone into the library to read; and I was just leaving the stables, after a look at some recent improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gentleman in it drove up to the door.  He asked politely if he might be allowed to see the house.  There were some fine pictures at Vange, as well as many interesting relics of antiquity; and the rooms were shown, in Romayne’s absence, to the very few travelers who were adventurous enough to cross the heathy desert that surrounded the Abbey.  On this occasion, the stranger was informed that Mr. Romayne was at home.  He at once apologized—­with an appearance of disappointment, however, which induced me to step forward and speak to him.

“Mr. Romayne is not very well,” I said; “and I cannot venture to ask you into the house.  But you will be welcome, I am sure, to walk round the grounds, and to look at the ruins of the Abbey.”

He thanked me, and accepted the invitation.  I find no great difficulty in describing him, generally.  He was elderly, fat and cheerful; buttoned up in a long black frockcoat, and presenting that closely shaven face and that inveterate expression of watchful humility about the eyes, which we all associate with the reverend personality of a priest.

To my surprise, he seemed, in some degree at least, to know his way about the place.  He made straight for the dreary little lake which I have already mentioned, and stood looking at it with an interest which was so incomprehensible to me, that I own I watched him.

He ascended the slope of the moorland, and entered the gate which led to the grounds.  All that the gardeners had done to make the place attractive failed to claim his attention.  He walked past lawns, shrubs, and flower-beds, and only stopped at an old stone fountain, which tradition declared to have been one of the ornaments of the garden in the time of the monks.  Having carefully examined this relic of antiquity, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and consulted it attentively.  It might have been a plan of the house and grounds, or it might not—­I can only report that he took the path which led him, by the shortest way, to the ruined Abbey church.

As he entered the roofless inclosure, he reverently removed his hat.  It was impossible for me to follow him any further, without exposing myself to the risk of discovery.  I sat down on one of the fallen stones, waiting to see him again.  It must have been at least half an hour before he appeared.  He thanked me for my kindness, as composedly as if he had quite expected to find me in the place that I occupied.

“I have been deeply interested in all that I have seen,” he said.  “May I venture to ask, what is perhaps an indiscreet question on the part of a stranger?”

I ventured, on my side, to inquire what the question might be.

“Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate,” he resumed, “in the possession of this beautiful place.  He is a young man, I think?”