'Good-bye, M. Martin,' said Pauline, returning his hand-pressure, and looking for an instant straight into his eyes, 'good-bye.' Then when the cab had driven off, she threw up her hands and crying out passionately, 'Adieu à jamais!' pulled her veil over her face and burst into a flood of tears.
[CHAPTER XII.]
L'ENVOI.
Away in the pleasant village of Twickenham, at the end of a broad lane turning out of the high-road, stands, shut in by heavy iron gates and in the midst of a large and exquisitely-kept garden, a bluff, red-faced, square-built old-fashioned house. From its windows you look across a broad level mead to the shining Thames, winding like a silver thread amongst the rich pasture-grounds, while from the tall elms, planted with forethought more than a century ago to serve as a screen against the north-east wind, comes the cawing of a colony of rooks, who there have established their head-quarters. Over all, house and garden, river and rookery, mead and landscape, there is an air of peace and prosperity, wealth and comfort, calm and repose. Far away on the horizon a lowering gray cloud shows where the great metropolis seethes and smokes; but so far as freshness and pure air are concerned, you might be in the very heart of the country.
Creeping down the great staircase, and sliding along the broad open balustrade, comes a slim elegant little girl of about eight years old, who slips out through the open dining-room window, and running across the garden to the iron gates, peers long and earnestly down the lane. The little girl is disappointed apparently, for when she turns away, she walks soberly back to the house, and stationing herself at the bottom of the staircase, calls out, 'There is no sign of him yet, papa!'
'Well,' cries a cheery voice from the upper floor, 'there's plenty of time for him to come yet, little Bell! you are such an impatient little woman.' And with these words, Humphrey Statham walks out on to the landing in his dressing-gown and with a book in his hand.
Three years have passed away since the occurrences narrated in the last chapter. They have left but little mark on our old friend; he is a little more bald, perhaps, and there are, here and there, patches of gray in the roots of his crisp beard, but his eyes are as bright and his manner as cheery as ever.
'You are such an impatient little woman,' he repeated, pulling the child towards him and kissing her forehead.
'No, I am not,' said Bell; 'not impatient generally, poppy, only I want to see the gentleman, and you never will talk to me when you've got a book in your hand.'
'Between you and your mamma, what is one to do?' said Humphrey Statham, laughing. 'Mamma wants me to read to her, you want me to play with you, and it is impossible to please both at the same time.'