Chapter XVII: Scarthwaite-in-the-Forest
Ida Stirling had spent some time in England when, one autumn evening, she descended the wide oak staircase of Scarthwaite Hall at Scarthwaite-in-the-Forest. There was no forest in the vicinity, though long ago a certain militant bishop had held by kingly favor the right of venery over the surrounding moors, and now odd wisps of straggling firs wound up the hollows that seamed them here and there. Nobody seemed to know who first built Scarthwaite Hall, though many a dalesman had patched it afterward and pulled portions of it down. It was one of the ancient houses, half farm and half stronghold, which may still be found in the north country. They were, until a few decades ago, usually in possession of the Statesmen who worked their own land. The Statesmen have gone—economic changes vanquished them—but the houses they inherited from the men who bore pike and bow at Bannockburn and Flodden are for the most part standing yet. They have made no great mark in history, but their stout walls have time and again been engirdled by Scottish spears, and after such occasions there was not infrequently lamentation by Esk and Liddell.
It was clear that Scarthwaite Hall had been built in those days of
foray, for one little, ruined, half-round tower rose from the brink of
a ravine whose sides the hardiest of moss-troopers could scarcely have
climbed. A partly filled-in moat led past the other, and in between
stretched the curtain wall which now formed the facade of the house
itself. Its arrow slits had been enlarged subsequently into narrow, stone-ribbed windows, and a new entrance made, while the ancient courtyard was girt with decrepit stables and barns. Most of the deep, winding dale still belonged to it, but the last Weston had signally failed to make a living out of it, or to meet his debts. He lived in a little town not far away, and let Scarthwaite for the shooting when he could, which explains how Major Kinnaird had taken it.
Ida looked about her as she came down the stairway. It led into a
dark-paneled, stone-arched hall, which, since habitable space was
rather scarce at Scarthwaite, served as general living-room. A fire
was burning in the big, ancient hearth, and a handful of people were
scattered here and there, waiting for dinner, which should have been
ready a few minutes earlier. Kinnaird, who appeared a trifle
impatient, was standing near his wife and a couple of shooting men, and his daughter was talking to one or two of his neighbors. Ida smiled as one of the latter glanced up at her, and she moved toward him when she reached the foot of the stairway. Ainslie, the owner of some quarries in the vicinity, was a middle-aged man whom she had met once or twice before.
When she had greeted him, she stood still a moment or two, listening
to the murmurs of general conversation. Then she saw Kinnaird, who was
standing not far from her, take out his watch.
"It's a little too bad of Weston. I shouldn't have waited for anybody
else," he said. "As it is, I suppose we'll have to give him a minute
or two longer."
The remark was evidently overheard, as perhaps Kinnaird intended. One
of the others laughed.
"Ralph Weston was never punctual in his life," he said.
"Considering everything," observed one of the women standing near Ida, "it is rather curious that Weston should have promised to come at all. It must be a trifle embarrassing to dine at one's own place as another man's guest."
"Oh," said the man beside her, "Weston would go anywhere for a good
dinner and a good glass of wine."
Ida, as it happened, had not heard what guests Mrs. Kinnaird had
expected, and she started at the name. It was a moment or two later
when she turned to her companion.
"This house belongs to the man they seem to be waiting for?" she
asked.
Ainslie nodded.
"Yes," he said, "I suppose it does."
"Then why doesn't he live in it?"
"It takes a good deal to keep up a place of this kind, and, until
Major Kinnaird came, it's some time since anybody seriously attempted
it."
"Ah!" said Ida. "Mr. Weston's means are insufficient?"
"It's a tolerably open secret. There are a good many people similarly
situated. A small and badly-kept estate is not a lucrative
possession."
"Then why don't they keep it up efficiently?"