Stafford laughed shortly.

"I've never thought about marrying," he said, rather absently.

"No one does, my dear fellow. It comes, like measles and other

unpleasant things, without thought; and when it comes, it is generally

as unpleasant. Aren't we going at a tremendous rate, Stafford? Don't

think I am nervous; I have ridden beside you too often for that. You

destroyed what nerve I possessed long ago."

"We are late, and it's farther round than I thought," said Stafford.

"The horses are fresh."

"I daresay; very probably Pottinger has given them a double feed; he

Advertisement..

would naturally like them to dash up in fine style. But if it's all the

same to you"--as the horses broke into a gallop--"I should prefer to

arrive at your father's 'little place' in a more dignified fashion than

on a stretcher."

Stafford smiled and checked the high-spirited pair.

"You talk of women as if they were a--a kind of plague; you were never

in love, Howard?" he asked.

"Never, thank Heaven!" responded Howard, devoutly. "When I think of it,

I acknowledge that I have much to be thankful for. I was once: she was

a girl with dark eyes--but I will spare you a minute description. I met

her in a country rectory--_is_ that horse, I think you call it the near

one--going to jump over the bank? And one remarkably fine evening--it

was moonlight, I remember--I was on the point of declaring my love; and

then the gods saved me. The thought flashed upon me that, if she said

'yes,' I should have to sit opposite her at dinner for the rest of one

of our lives. It saved me. I said that I thought it was chilly, and

went in and up to bed, grateful for my escape. Why don't you laugh?"

Stafford only smiled in a perfunctory fashion. He was thinking of the

girl he had watched riding off on the unbroken colt; of what it would

seem like if she were seated opposite him, with the candle-light

falling on her soft white dress, with diamonds gleaming in it, diamonds

outshone by the splendour of those dark, violet-grey eyes; of what it

would seem like if he could rise from his seat and go to her and take

her in his arms and look into those dark grey eyes, and say, "You are

mine, mine!" with no one to say him nay.

"It was a lucky escape for her," he said, dreamily.

"It was," assented Howard, solemnly. "Not one man in a thousand can

love one woman all his life; and I've the strongest conviction that I

am not that one. In less than six months I should have grown tired of

her--in less than a year I should have flown from the joys of

matrimony--or killed the partner of those joys. Has Pottinger a wife

and family, my dear Stafford? If so, is it wise to risk his life in

this fashion? I don't care for myself--though still young, I am not

afraid to die, and I would as soon meet it hurled from a phaeton as

not--but may I beg of you to think of Pottinger?"




Most Popular