"And you fancy you will get the appointment?" asked Mrs. Esmond, looking up at him.
"I hope so," said Coulthurst. "I really think the people in office ought to do something for me. I contrived to save them a good deal of trouble with the French on the frontier. Still I don't know what to do with Grace if I get it, though I had thoughts of taking her out to Canada."
Mrs. Esmond appeared to reflect for a moment or two.
"Is there any reason why you shouldn't leave her here?" she said. "I think I took good care of her before."
They had almost reached the table where the others sat, and Coulthurst stopped with a shadow of perplexity in his sunburnt face. He was a widower with insufficient means, and had one or two somewhat pointed letters from importunate creditors in his pocket then. He had also been a friend of Mrs. Esmond's for more than twenty years, but, though by no means fastidious in some respects, there were points on which he possessed a certain delicacy of sentiment.
"I almost think there is. Grace, you see, is older now," he said.
Mrs. Esmond looked up, and, as it happened, Grace Coulthurst and Geoffrey Esmond came slowly towards them across the lawn just then. The young man's gaze was fixed upon the girl, but she was looking away from him, which increased the suggestiveness of his attitude and expression, for both of those who watched them could see his face. Grace was indeed distinctly pretty, and that afternoon the indefinite but unmistakable attribute which the woman who had defended her termed good style was especially noticeable. It was expressed in the poise of the little head, the erect carriage, and even the fashion in which the light draperies hung in flowing lines about the shapely figure. Then the black-robed lady turned, and looked at Coulthurst steadily.
"Yes," he said, though she had not spoken. "Her mother would have known what was right – and fitting, but since she was taken from me I feel it – a responsibility, to say the least."
"Could you not trust me?"
"In everything. That is, unless it was to your own disadvantage – or what would certainly be regarded so. You mean me to be frank, I think?"
"Of course! In any case, I am not sure that you are capable of concealing your sentiments."
"Then," said Coulthurst gravely, "I should like you to remember that Grace has nothing."
Mrs. Esmond smiled. "And Geoffrey has a good deal? Still, we have it on excellent authority that the value of a good woman is above rubies."
Major Coulthurst was red-faced and burly, and usually abrupt in his movements; but his attitude became him as he made his companion a little grave inclination.
"Grace is very like her mother – I cannot say more than that."
Perhaps it was not very tactful; though he did not know what the gossips had whispered when he was a reckless subaltern long ago. In any case, he had married a woman with as few possessions as he himself had, and his life had been a hard one ever since. His companion, however, smiled somewhat curiously.
"I think she is in many ways like her father too; but that is scarcely the point," she said. "I have offered to take care of her for you."
"Well," said Coulthurst quietly, "when the time comes we will try to decide, and in the meanwhile I can only thank you."
Then they joined the others, and for awhile sat talking in the shade, until Geoffrey Esmond, who had taken his place beside them, looked up suddenly with a curious contraction of his face.
"I am almost afraid we are going to have some undesirable visitors," he said.
From beyond the trees that shut the lawn off from the village there rose the tooting of a cornet, which was followed by a cheer and a rattle of wheels. Then there was a murmur of harsh voices which broke portentously through the slumbrous quietness, and Esmond, rising abruptly, glanced at the major, who walked a little apart with him. Esmond looked worried.
"Yes," he said in answer to the major's questioning glance, "I fancy they are coming to pull my gates and fences down. Roberts, the groom, heard enough in Hoddam to suggest that they were plotting something of the kind, and I told him to have a horse saddled, though I didn't quite believe it myself. There are, however, evidently several wagonette-loads of them yonder."
"The question is," said Coulthurst sharply, "do you mean to let them in?"
The young man laughed. "I should almost have fancied it was unnecessary. Including the keepers, I can roll up six men. That makes eight with you and me, while Leslie, who is a magistrate, as you know, lives scarcely two miles away."
"Then you had better send for him. Eight men with the law behind them should be quite enough to hold off the rabble – that is, so long as no blow is struck; but you will excuse my mentioning that you will require to keep a firm hand on your temper."
"I'll try, though I have been told it isn't a very excellent one," said the younger man. "Now, if you will beguile the women into the house, I'll make arrangements."
Coulthurst was not a clever man, but he contrived to accomplish it; and it was some twenty minutes later when he and Esmond walked down a path beneath the beeches with four or five men behind them. The major carried a riding whip, and there was a curious little smile in his eyes, while the rest had sticks, though in accordance with his instructions they made no display of them. The wood was shadowy and very still, and there was no sound but that made by startled rabbits, until they came out into the sunlight, where a spiked railing crossed a narrow glade. There was a mossy path beyond it chequered with patches of cool shadow, and a group of dusty men were moving down it towards the padlocked gate. The foremost of them stopped when they saw the party from the Grange, and then after a whispered consultation came on again.
"Where are you going?" asked Esmond.
"Into the Dene," said one of the strangers.
"You have been to the lodge to ask permission?"
"No," said another hot and perspiring man, "we haven't. It isn't necessary."
"I'm afraid it is," said Esmond quietly. "In fact, there is a board to that effect a few yards back. No doubt you noticed it."
The man laughed. "We did. It isn't there now. We pulled it up."
Esmond flushed a trifle. "Then if you ever wish to get into the Dene I think you made a mistake," he said. "Still, as you can't get any farther to-day, you may as well go back. This gate is locked."
"That don't count," said somebody. "We'll have it off its hinges inside five minutes."
The lad swung round sharply towards the speaker, but Coulthurst laid a restraining hand upon his arm. "Steady!" he said, and raised his voice a trifle. "Now, look here, my men, you certainly can't come in, and you'll only get yourselves into trouble by trying. This is private property."
"Of course!" said one of the strangers. "Everything is. You've got the land, and you've got the water – one can't even bathe in the river now. It's not your fault you can't lay hands on the air and sunshine, too."
There was an approving murmur from his comrades, and Esmond shook off the major's grasp.
"That is rot!" he said. "Willow Dene belongs to me, and you are certainly not coming in. I don't feel inclined to explain my reasons for keeping you out of it, and it's quite probable you wouldn't understand them. Have you brought any responsible person to whom one could talk along with you?"
The languid insolence in his even tone had an effect which a flood of invective might have failed to produce; and once more there was a murmur from the crowd, while a man with a grim, dust-smeared face held up a bludgeon.
"We've brought these, and they're good enough," he said.
Then the men moved a little, and there were cries of "Let him have a chance!" as a young man pushed his way through them. He was plainly and neatly dressed and carried nothing in his hand.
"I'm sorry our Committee is not here to lay our views before you, Mr. Esmond, which was what we had intended; but if