The squire sighed as, with a hurried step, his son-in-law left the room.
“It has been a trying day for Bradstone,” he said.
“Yes, it is always so, when the bridegroom is really in love with the bride,” said Lord Carfield.
The squire pressed his hand.
“Thank you for that, Carfield,” he murmured, and his voice trembled with emotion. “Yes, I know that he loves her, and that—and that is everything.”
“Is everything,” echoed the earl, encouragingly.
Bartley Bradstone almost ran down the terrace steps, and stopped before one of the long line of carriages which stood in the drive; then, as if he had changed his mind, he glanced at his watch and hurried down the avenue.
After going a hundred yards or so he pulled up and looked round. Not a soul was in sight; almost the whole village was feasting in the marquee, from which shouts and laughter floated toward him, and, climbing the low park railing, he, running now, made his way into the wood.
The clock struck the hour; three minutes afterward he emerged from among the trees into the open space where he had arranged to meet Bella. She was not there. While yet breathless he flung himself on to the trunk of the tree, and, taking off his hat, mopped his wet forehead.
Five, ten minutes passed; he got up and paced to and fro with his watch in his hand, cursing and chafing.