’She is very lovely, and she is—­well—­not quite spoiled by her entourage, and they tell me she is an heiress—­sure to inherit a fine fortune from some ancient grandmother, buried alive in Westmoreland,’ he mused.  ’What a splendid opportunity it would be if—­if the business could be arranged on the square.  But as it is—­well—­as it is there is the chance of an adventure; and when did a Montesma ever avoid an adventure, although there were dagger or poison lurking in the background?  And here there is neither poison nor steel, only a lovely woman, and an infatuated stockbroker, about whom I know enough to disgrace and ruin an archbishop.  Poor Smithson!  How very unlucky that I should happen to come across your pathway in the heyday of your latest love affair.  We have had our little adventures in that line already, and we have measured swords together, metaphorically, before to-night.  When it comes to a question of actual swords my Smithson declines. Pas si bete.’

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LORD HARTFIELD REFUSES A FORTUNE.

A honeymoon among lakes and mountains, amidst the gorgeous confusion of Borrowdale, in a little world of wild, strange loveliness, shut in and isolated from the prosaic outer world by the vast and towering masses of Skiddaw and Blencathara—­a world of one’s own, as it were, a world steeped in romance and poetry, dear to the souls of poets.  There are many such honeymoons every summer; indeed, the mountain paths, the waterfalls and lakes swarm with happy lovers; and this land of hills and waters seems to have been made expressly for honeymoon travellers; yet never went truer lovers wandering by lake and torrent, by hill and valley, than those two whose brief honeymoon was now drawing to a close.

It was altogether a magical time for Mary, this dawn of a new life.  The immensity of her happiness almost frightened her.  She could hardly believe in it, or trust in its continuance.

‘Am I really, really, really your wife?’ she asked on their last day, bending down to speak to her husband, as he led her pony up the rough ways of Skiddaw.  ‘It is all so dreadfully like a dream.’

‘Thank God, it is the very truth,’ answered Lord Hartfield, looking fondly at the fresh young face, brightened by the summer wind, which faintly stirred the auburn hair under the neat little hat.

’And am I actually a Countess?  I don’t care about it one little bit, you know, except as a stupendous joke.  If you were to tell me that you had been only making fun of poor grandmother and me, and that those diamonds are glass, and you only plain John Hammond, it wouldn’t make the faintest difference.  Indeed, it would be a weight off my mind.  It is an awfully oppressive thing to be a Countess.’

’I’m sorry I cannot relieve you of the burden.  The law of the land has made you Lady Hartfield; and I hope you are preparing your mind for the duties of your position.’