They walked in the bitter, hopeless dark, stumbling over the rough ground, the groom following with the horses.  But soon Lady Edith stopped, and leaning heavily on Mike, said—­

“I can go no further; I wish I were dead!”

“Dead!  No, no,” he whispered; “live for my sake, darling.”

At that moment the gable of a barn appeared like an apparition.  The cattle which were lying in the yard started from under the horses’ feet, and stood staring in round-eyed surprise.  The barn was half full of hay, and in the dry pungent odour Mike and Lady Edith rested an hour.  Sometimes a bullock filled the doorway with ungainly form and steaming nostrils; sometimes the lips of the lovers met.  In about half an hour the groom returned with the news that the fog was lifting, and discovering a cart-track, they followed it over the hills for many a mile.

“There is Horton Borstal,” cried Parker, as they entered a deep cutting overgrown with bushes.  “I know my way now, my lady; we are seven miles from home.”

When he bade Lady Edith good-bye, Mike’s mind thrilled with a sense of singular satisfaction.  Here was an adventure which seemed to him quite perfect; it had been preceded by no wearisome preliminaries, and he was not likely ever to see her again.

Weeks and months passed, and the simple-minded country folk with whom he had taken up his abode seemed more thoroughly devoted to him; the anchor of their belief seemed now deeply grounded, and in the peaceful bay of their affection his bark floated, safe from shipwrecking current or storm.  There was neither subterfuge or duplicity in Mike; he was always singularly candid on the subject of his sins and general worthlessness, and he was never more natural in word and deed than at Holly Park.  If its inmates had been reasonable they would have cast him forth; but reason enters hardly at all in the practical conduct of human life, and our loves and friendships owe to it neither origin or modification.

It was a house of copious meals and sleep.  Mike stirred these sluggish livers, and they accepted him as a digestive; and they amused him, and he only dreamed vaguely of leaving them until he found his balance at the bank had fallen very low.  Then he packed up his portmanteau and left them, and when he walked down the Strand he had forgotten them and all country pursuits, and wanted to talk of journalism; and he would have welcomed the obscurest paragraphist.  Suddenly he saw Frank; and turning from a golden-haired actress who was smiling upon him, he said—­

“How do you do?” The men shook hands, and stood constrainedly talking for a few minutes; then Mike suggested lunch, and they turned into Lubini’s.  The proprietor, a dapper little man, more like a rich man’s valet than a waiter, whose fat fingers sparkled with rings, sat sipping sherry and reading the racing intelligence to a lord who offered to toss him for half-crowns.