"It don't concern you; and as to what I think, I'll keep it to myself."
"It's two years since he left us, and the Squire's been thinking about it all night. He's got a notion Mr. Ulick will come back at this time of year."
"So he will, and I hope my lass will come too," said Eli.
"You still think they did not go away together?" asked Bob.
"I don't say that, but I'll swear Mr. Ulick never harmed a hair of her head," said Eli.
"He's a rum 'un," thought Bob. "Why, everybody knows they ran off together; that's what made the Squire so bitter."
"Have a glass of ale?" said Eli.
"Thanks, you keep a better tap than they have at Hazelwell."
"I drink it myself," said Eli, smiling, "and order it myself. I expect it's not the Squire's fault if you don't get the best."
"No, it's not. Old Josh knows how many beans make five, and I'll bet he charges top price for the stuff he gets in for us," said Bob.
Eli went indoors and came out with a foaming tankard of ale, which Bob Heather made short work of.
"That will keep me warm," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction.
"You have plenty of rugs, are you afraid the luggage will catch cold?" said Eli, slyly.
"Luggage be blowed," said Bob. "These things are for Mary; she'd never forgive me if she caught a cold," and he shook the reins and proceeded on his journey.
CHAPTER III
RANDOM
Squire Maynard remained in the dining-room throughout the night. Towards morning he fell asleep in his arm-chair, Bersak watching on the rug at his feet. It would have gone ill with the man who attempted to touch the Squire with Bersak on guard. More than one poacher had felt the hound's teeth in his calf, and howled for mercy, and been forgiven on account of the punishment received.
Bersak once saved Ulick's life, or if not his life, at any rate rescued him from being maimed.
A three-year-old bull attacked him, and there was no chance of escape. The furious beast had Ulick at his feet, and was bellowing over him, as a preliminary to goring him, when Bersak came to the rescue. The wolf-hound tore across the field in a direct line for the bull, who, seeing him, raised his head and bellowed forth defiance. On came Bersak, and flew straight at the bull's throat. He tore him terribly, but the animal could not rid himself of his fierce enemy. Never had bull such a mauling, and when Ulick came to himself he saw the dog still dragging his enemy down. It was a long struggle, but Bersak won, and the bull was shot to end his misery.
Bersak's fame spread far and wide, and he had the honour of having several attempts made upon his life by the bad characters in the district.
So, while his master slept, Bersak kept watch; and when the door was opened by Bob Heather in the morning a faint growl warned the intruder that his master still slept. He closed the door and went quietly away, thinking it was a blessing the Squire had not kept awake all night.
A faint light stole into the room as Redmond Maynard awoke, and at first he looked round, hardly realising where he was. Then, as he thought over the events of the previous day, he said to himself, "Not this year. I must be patient; perhaps it will be in the next." Then he drew aside the curtains and looked again upon the wintry scene. A good deal of snow had fallen during the night, and the wind drifted it against the hedges and the trunks of the huge oak trees. There was no sign of life until a hare ran across the lawn into the garden, where there was a plentiful supply of winter vegetables. Presently stealing along with his tail out, head down, and glancing from side to side with a cunning look, came a fox. He, too, crossed the lawn in the track of the hare, and the Squire smiled as he watched him.
"You are having a rest, my friend," he said; "but I think you would prefer the hounds at your heels, and an open country before you, in preference to all the snow. No hunting for weeks, that is what it looks like. Deuce take Warren, I wonder why he always goes to town when there is an excuse handy. Was I right in advising Irene to marry him. I think so, I hope so; but yet I doubt. He is good-looking, has money, a fine estate adjoining mine, bears a good character, as young men go, and yet there is something wanting about him. He must love Irene, no one could help it, but he has no business to leave her alone to her own devices. She is young, has no children yet, nothing to occupy her mind; no, it is not fair to her. In a hunting country like this the free-and-easy intercourse at the meets sometimes leads to danger. Nothing is meant at first, but gradually acquaintance ripens into intimacy, and one cannot well decline to put up a fellow sportsman, even if one's husband be absent. Irene is to be trusted, I know, but she is remarkably handsome, and her good nature is apt to carry her too far in her efforts to please. If only Ulick had – but there, he didn't, so what is the use of thinking about it. Stupid fellow, not to see his way clear, and then to disgrace our name beyond all redemption. I wonder where he is, and where she is?" He stopped soliloquising, and went to the bath-room, from whence, in about half-an-hour, he emerged refreshed and in a more amiable frame of mind. In the breakfast-room he found Irene.
She came forward smiling, and kissed him.
"There, was not that nice? You do not deserve it though, for you sat up all night."
"Who has been telling tales?" he asked.
"Bersak."
He laughed as be said, "And, pray, how is Bersak to be held responsible?"
"He took me into the dining-room, and I followed him to your chair. He stood looking at it so comically that I had to laugh. He said as plainly as though he had spoken, 'That's where he sat all night, and I watched him. No fear of anyone touching him with me on guard.'"
"Wonderful," laughed the Squire. "Irene, with Bersak as your instructor and guide, you would quickly find out all my secrets."
"I did not know you had any."
"They are not very terrible, but I possess a few; I must be in the fashion," he said.
"I have no secrets from Warren. I tell him everything."
"I wonder if he tells you everything," thought Redmond Maynard, and said aloud, "That's right, my dear, never have any secrets from your husband."
She poured out his coffee for him, and handed it herself. She tempted him with a dainty portion of pigeon pie, and then insisted upon some anchovy paste.
"I'll tell you what it is, Irene; I have not made such a good breakfast for many a day. Your presence is appetising."
She was pleased to hear him talk in this strain, more like his old self. Somehow, she did not miss Warren; she hardly gave him a thought. As for Anselm Manor, she much preferred Hazelwell, as it was more like home.
At the Manor she often felt nervous and depressed when alone, peopling the old place with the figures of clean-shaven monks in long brown gowns, pacing up and down the corridors, Bible in hand or telling their beads, and thinking of things earthly while engaged spiritually.
Anselm Manor, in the centuries gone by, had been a monastery, and it was an ancestor of Warren Courtly who founded it. Harry the Eighth upset many monkish arrangements, but, strange to say, he allowed Anselm to exist. The much-married monarch never even visited the place on a monk hunt, although it contained much valuable plate, and the eighth Henry had a penchant for other people's property.
In
