There was a short-cut through the wood—the same wood in which Faradeane had pleaded for Bertie—and, the moon lighting up every inch of the way, Mr. Bartley Bradstone decided to go through the wood.
Many another man would have been struck by the beauty of the scene, the soft light throwing the shadow of every leaf upon the ground in a delicate tracery, and silvering every branch of the grand old oaks which had been the pride of generations of Vanleys; but Mr. Bartley Bradstone was too fully occupied with thoughts of to-morrow to bestow any attention upon scenery.
“Only a few hours more,” he muttered, “only a few hours! I’m a plucky devil, and I deserve to win; and I will, too! She’s plucky, too. Lord! it’s wonderful what a girl will do to save her father. How beautiful she is, and how proud! But I’ll cure her of that, I rather think. I’ll let her know who’s master, once I’ve got her safe and tight. I’ll have no more of that fellow Faradeane, for one thing. She thinks a great deal too much of him—a great deal. If he fancies he is going to hang about her skirts after she’s my wife, as he’s been doing lately, he’ll find his mistake out. That Faradeane’s a beast, and I hate him!”
He repeated this charming sentiment twice, and with such energy that he let his cigar go out.
Flinging it away, he took out his case, and, after selecting another, lit a match. As he did so he heard a rustling among the undergrowth, but, thinking it was a chance rabbit, took very little notice; but suddenly, as the match was falling from his fingers, the figure of a woman slipped out from among the shadows and stood right in his path.
He stepped back with a start of surprise, and stared at her; and she, with a quick movement, flung the shawl she was wearing from before her face and laughed.
It was only a woman’s laugh, but it made Bartley Bradstone shrink back trembling and shaking like a leaf; the cigar fell from his fingers, and he stood—or, rather, leaned—against a tree like a man who is suddenly confronted with a ghost.
The woman, planting her feet firmly on the path, stared at him for a moment in silence, then burst into another loud, mirthless laugh.
“Why, it’s you!” she exclaimed, and her laugh rang through the wood. “You! Well, this beats anything! You of all men!” and she struck her hands on her hips and laughed again.
Bartley Bradstone’s tongue seemed to cling to the roof of his mouth, and his face, ashen pale, was distorted like a man’s in mortal agony.