James Steadman was dead. Medicine could do nothing for that lifeless
clay, lying on the hearth by which he had sat on so many winter nights,
for so many years of faithful unquestioning service. There was nothing
to be done for that stiffening form, save the last offices for the dead;
and Lord Hartfield left Mr. Horton to arrange with the weeping woman as
to the doing of these. He was anxious to go to Lady Maulevrier, to break
to her, as gently as might be, the news of her servant's death.
And what of that strange old man in the upper rooms? Who was to attend
upon him, now that the caretaker was laid low?
While Lord Hartfield lingered on the threshold of the door that led from
the old house to the new, pondering this question, there came the sound
of wheels on the carriage drive, and then a loud ring at the hall door.
It was Maulevrier, just arrived from Scotland, smelling of autumn rain
and cool fresh air.
'Dreadfully bored on the moors,' he said, as they shook hands. 'No
birds--nobody to talk to--couldn't stand it any longer.
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