Philip rushed through the bushes and stood in front of her. At once she realized that she needed to take advantage of her situation. She closed her eyes once more. Philip feared that he had killed Miss Worrall. As he stood over the seemingly unconscious body of the young woman, he felt his senses were deserting him. His first impulse was to run away. He didn’t, however. His second impulse was to give what help he could to his poor, young victim. He knelt down by her and gently touched her hand and face. To his infinite relief, he found out that she was still breathing. He took her beautiful head in his hands.

  “Speak to me, lady, I beg you,” he said, his voice almost inaudible.

  All this time Jane was thanking God for the fulfillment of her wishes and thinking of ways to further her designs on the young man, whose attention she held at long last. After some time she made a slight move and Philip gave an exclamation of delight. Then she opened her beautiful eyes. She looked at the young man with the air of a person just awaking from a dream. She fluttered her eye-lashes.

  “It’s me,” said the distraught young man. “It’s me, Viscount Philip of Swaffham. Forgive me, lady and please tell me you’re not in pain.”

  The young woman almost burst out laughing. Pity came over her. She gently drew her face away from his hands and said softly, “I’m really more frightened than hurt.”

  Philip felt heaven opening right in front of his very eyes.

  “Let me go get you help,” he cried.

  But she didn’t want him to leave.

  “No, no! It is a mere scratch,” she said hastily.

  She raised her skirt a little and showed him a foot and a bit of a leg, which might have stunned any man.

  “See,” she said, “my ankle hurts.”

  She pointed to a spot of blood on her delicate white stocking. At the sight of this the young man’s sprang to his feet and looked around.

  “No, lady, let me run to the house,” he said. “In less than ten minutes we’ll…”

  “Don’t bother,” interrupted the woman. “You can give me all the help I need. Look at me! I can move my foot.”

  Philip, however, looked away.

  “I beg of you…”

  “Hush! We will soon see what damage you have wrought.”

  She touched her foot and leg. One pellet had grazed her skin, another one was lodged in her flesh, but it was on the surface.

  “A doctor must see to this,” said Philip, glancing at her leg stealthily.

  “No, no.”

  The young man shut his mouth. He stayed still, holding his breath, while she took her shawl and tied it around her ankle. He had never heard a softer voice or looked at a more lovely face.

  “Now that is done,” she exclaimed, with a light laugh.

  She extended her slender fingers to Philip, so that he might help her to stand up. He did. As soon as she was on her feet, she took a few steps with the prettiest limp imaginable.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked anxiously.

  “A little,” she said and added with a coquettish laugh, “Admit, sir, that this is a most unusual way of greeting a lady.”

  Philip turned red at her words.

  “But to be frank this little incident is also a lesson to me,” she continued. “My mother always tells me to keep to the roads, but I prefer the small paths, because of the lovely scenery.”

  Philip looked around and for the first time in his life, he realized that the view was quite beautiful.

  “I’m on these paths nearly every day,” said Jane. “I’m a very bad daughter, though, to disobey my mother. I go to see poor Mrs. Fullerton. She’s ill with consumption, poor thing and I take her soup every now and then.”

  In Philip’s opinion only wings were lacking to transform her into an angel.

  “The poor woman has five children and her husband does nothing for them, because he drinks everything he earns,” the young woman went on.

  Fullerton was the name of one of the two farmers on the promissory note for four thousand shilling Philip had signed. The young man thought of it and then immediately forgot it. Jane had slung her basket on her arm.

  “Before I leave you today,” she said, “I would like to ask a favor of you.”

  “A favor? Of me, Miss?”

  “Yes, you. Please oblige me by saying nothing of what happened here today to anyone. If it comes to my parents’ ears, they will undoubtedly take away the little freedom of movement that they now grant me.”

  “Miss Jane,” said Philip earnestly, “please know that I will never mention the terrible accident that I caused to anyone.”

  “Thank you, Viscount Philip,” answered the woman, with a half-mocking courtesy. “And take my advice, before you shoot, make sure no one is in the bushes.”

  With these words she walked away, her small feet showed hardly any signs of the accident. She had read Philip’s face like the pages of an open book. She felt sure she had every chance of winning him.

  She said to herself, “I will be Lady Swaffham.”

  She was sure that Philip had understood what she had meant to say, when she had told him that she often walked along that path. She was certain that the young man wouldn’t forget a single word she had uttered that afternoon. When she came to a bend in the path, she stealthily looked back for a moment and saw Philip standing like one of the motionless trees around him. He was looking at her. She smiled inside.

  After Jane had left, the unhappy young gentleman felt lost. Luke barked. He was chasing a rabbit, but Philip was not interested. He turned around and walked home. To his surprise, he found the main gate wide open. From the doorway he heard his father’s voice saying, “Come quickly, my boy! Our guest has arrived.”

  Since the death of the last Lady of Swaffham the greater portion of the Manor house had been closed. With some difficulty the reception rooms were made ready for use.

  The dining room was luxuriously decorated. There were massive buffets of carved oak, dark with age, ornamented with brass. The shelves groaned beneath the heavy load of goblets of the brightest silver, engraved with the coat of arms of the House of Swaffham.

  Standing near one of the windows, Philip saw a man, stout, bald and red-faced, wearing a mustache and small beard. His clothes were made by a first-rate tailor, but he himself looked very common.

  “This is my son,” said the lord, “the Viscount of Swaffham. Viscount, let me introduce you to the Count of Harcourt.”

  This was the first time that the old man had ever addressed Philip by his title. He was surprised. He glanced at his father, after he shook hands with the count. A bell in the outer hall, which had not rung for years, rang out loud and instantly a butler appeared, carrying a massive silver soup tureen, which he placed on the table. He then stood up straight and announced solemnly, “Dinner is served.”

  The little party at once seated themselves. Philip looked at the farm hand, unrecognizable in his butler’s clothes. A dinner in such a big room would have been rather dull had it not been enlivened by the amusing anecdotes of the Count of Harcourt. He told them in a jovial but rather vulgar manner and halted often to laugh at his own tales. He ate with the appetite of a hungry man and praised the quality of the wine, which the lord himself had chosen from the cellar. The old man had filled it with an immense stock of expensive and famous wines for the benefit of his much loved descendants. The lord, who was normally silent and reserved, smiled constantly and seemed delighted by the wit of his guest. Philip didn’t know whether he was doing only his duty as the host or that his smile hid a cunning plan. Though not particularly bright, Philip had studied his father’s every expression for years as every child studies his parents and knew exactly what annoyed and what pleased him.

  The Count of Harcourt lived in a big house with his daughter Renee, at some three miles distance from Swaffham Manor. He was fond of entertaining and the privileged classes, who never for a moment thought of declining his invitations, didn’t hesitate to say that Harcourt was a man without any morals. He couldn’t have been spoken of with more contempt, had he been caught stealing from widows and orphans. He was very rich, however and it was said that he was in possession of five million shilling. This also was enough reason for hating him, but the fact was, that Harcourt was not a thief and had earned his money by speculating on the price of sugar in Australia. He had lived happily and was respected in his native town of Sydney, until a visit from the Prince of Wales to the city, had all at once set his head ablaze. He wished to add a title to his name and from that time his life had been one of unfulfilled expectations and misery. He bought an estate and took its name. He bought his title in Germany. His coat of arms was made for him by a heraldic agent in London. Since his arrival in England several years earlier his ambition had been to be treated as a real aristocrat. Dining with the eccentric, but true blue through and through Lord Swaffham, who never invited anyone to his table, was to him a real mark of acceptance.

  At ten o’clock he stood up and declared it was time for him to leave. The lord escorted him the length of the driveway to the gates opening on the main road and Philip, who walked a few steps behind them, he himself was followed by the chauffeur driven car of their guest, caught now and then a few words of their conversation.

  “Yes,” said Harcourt, “I would give a million in a case like that.”

  Then he heard a few words from the lord. Philip could only catch the words “thousands and millions.”

  He paid little attention to the two old men in front of him, because his thoughts were many miles away. Since his meeting that evening with the fair young lady, he had thought of nothing else and he absent-mindedly shook hands with their guest and said, “Goodnight,” when his father did.

  When the lord was sure that Mr. Harcourt had gone and couldn’t hear him, he took his son by the arm.

  “That,” he said, pointing at the luxury automobile disappearing in the distance, “is an example of our new, fake aristocracy that has sprung up around us. And mark my words, though he’s pompous and puffed up by a ridiculous sense of vanity, this man is shrewd. His descendants and the descendants of men like him will have the advantages of a better education and they will form a new class with more wealth and as just as much influence as we used to have.”

  Lord Swaffham continued to expound on his favorite topic for more than an hour, but he might as well have talked to himself, because his son’s mind was still at the path and the bushes and the young woman, who had appeared from them that evening. Her sweet, soft laugh and her voice still rang in his ears.

  “How foolish I must have looked and what ridiculous figure I must have seemed in her eyes!” he thought to himself.

  He had not forgotten that Jane had told him that she walked along that little path every day on her way to help that poor dreadful woman and her five children. That was his chance to see her again. He had a lot to say to her, but he became afraid that his shyness might deprive him of the power to complete his sentences and he would end up making a fool of himself.

  That night he decided to write, but then tore apart some fifty letters. He didn’t know how to say, “I love you,” but that was exactly the sentiment he felt and wanted to express. He tried in vain to find the right words to at the same time hide the boldness, yet also reveal the depth of his feelings for her. Late at night at last he was satisfied with his choice of words.

  Rising early the next day, he picked up his shotgun and whistling to Luke to follow him, he made his way to the bushes, where the previous day he had seen Jane lying on the ground, on a bed of colorful autumn leaves. He waited in vain for her. Hour after hour passed by. He paced up and down the little path in both fear and agony. Jane didn’t come that day. He didn’t know why, but the wily young lady had thought over her plans carefully and stayed away.

  The next day Philip was seated on a tree stump, calmly awaiting with fond expectation the young woman’s appearance. As Jane came closer Luke scented her and rushed toward her with a delightful bark. She walked up to the spot where Philip was sitting. The young people were for a moment equally embarrassed and lost for words. Philip then stood up, holding in his hand the letter, which he had been able to write after so many hours of hard labor.

  “I’ve tried to wait for you here, Miss,” he said in a voice, which trembled with suppressed emotion, “because I was full of anxiety to know how you have been.”

  He stopped, looked at her ankle, awaiting a word of encouragement, but the young woman didn’t answer.

  “I was tempted to call at your father’s house and inquire about you, but you had told me not to tell anyone of the accident and I didn’t wish to disobey you.”

  “I thank you sincerely,” said Jane.

  “Yesterday,” the young man went on, “I waited here the whole day to see you. Are you angry with me? I had thought that you would understand my anxiety about your ankle and my sincere wish to apologize again for my…”

  He stopped, terrified at his own audacity.

  “Yesterday,” answered Jane lightly as if not noticing the young man’s embarrassment, “I was asked to stay home by my mother.”

  “For the past two days,” he replied, “you, lying unconscious and bleeding on the ground, have always been in front of my eyes. I felt horrible. I felt as if I had murdered you. I will always see your pale face and I will always remember how when I touched your face, I, for a moment felt like I was on top of the world and…”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that, Viscount,” interrupted Jane, but she spoke in such a low tone of voice that Philip couldn’t hear her.

  “When I saw you my feelings overwhelmed me. I couldn’t put them into words. But as soon as you had left me, it seemed as if everything was so much darker.”

  To avoid showing her delight at his words, Jane was compelled to turn her head to one side.

  “Forgive me, Miss,” said Philip, in despair, when he saw her look away. “Please forgive me, for I don’t know what I say. Please forgive me, if I’ve offended you. My life has been so dreary and empty till now, that it seemed to me, the moment that I saw you, I had found someone, who would take some interest in me and that I, on my part, could devote my whole life to her. But now I see how insane and foolish I’ve been.”

  “Ahh!” she said.

  She looked in his eyes with such a glance of tenderness that it restored Philip’s courage to continue.

  “Miss,” he said, “please don’t play with my heart, because that would be too cruel.”

  Overcome by emotion, he fell on his knees and he poured a stream of passionate kisses on her hands. Jane felt herself swept away by his stream of emotion. She gasped for air. Her modesty warned her that she had to bring this dangerous meeting to an end.

  “I’ve forgotten my poor patients,” she said hurriedly.

  She walked away quickly. Philip, still on his knees, sprang to his feet and followed her.

  “I will accompany you!”

  Jane visited an old woman. Philip looked on as his little angel busied herself with her work of charity. He looked on silently then placed two shilling from the money he had borrowed from Newton on the table and left the cottage. Jane followed him out the door and said, “Tomorrow.” She put her finger on her lips to silence him and walked away in the direction of her father’s house.

  Philip could hardly believe his good fortune. The lovely woman had confessed her affection for him, not by her words, but by her deeds. And he was ready to follow her everywhere she would take him. He tore up the letter. He had made clear to her how he felt and so had she. He no longer had any anxieties regarding his future. He thanked the Good Lord for helping him to meet Miss Jane Worrall. At dinner that night he was so joyful and in such good spirits, that even his father noticed it.

  “I bet, my boy,” said the lord, “that you have had a good day’s hunt.”

  “You would win your bet,” answered Philip.

  His father didn’t pursue the subject, but Philip knew that he had to cover his tracks. He stopped the next day at the butcher’s store and purchased some grouse and a rabbit. He waited for an hour for Jane and when she appeared, her face looked pale and she had dark marks under her eyes. She looked as if she had not slept that night.

  As she met Philip, she realized how much risk she was running by her dangerous conduct. She was endangering her future and her reputation, everything that should be most precious to a young woman. For a moment she thought of talking to her parents, but she dismissed the thought immediately, because she knew that her father would believe that the greedy Lord Swaffham would never consent to a marriage for his son, which didn’t add to the Swaffham fortune. What’s more she risked her entire freedom being taken from her and that she might even be sent to live with a relative far away.

  “I cannot stop now,” she murmured to herself. “I have to continue. I must run the risk to gain the future in which I’m more interested than ever before.”

  Jane and Philip had a long conversation together. They seemed to forget time and place, a place, which had become so dear to their hearts. It was only the sight of a farmer approaching them that reminded the young woman to be more prudent. She told Philip she must go on her errand of charity. Philip, as before, was allowed to escort her and he even went so far as to offer his arm, on which she steadied herself, when the road was steep or uneven.