“No,” cried Sir Godfrey; “but I will from my true old friend.” And as, trembling with emotion, he grasped the colonel’s hands, he turned to see Lady Markham in Mistress Forrester’s arms.
Meanwhile, a curious scene had been taking place at the back of the Hall, where Nat had directed his steps to lament over the weeds and ruin of the neglected place. He had walked on along familiar paths through the plantation to the back of the kitchen garden, passed through an old oaken gate in the high stone wall, and there stopped aghast.
“Here, who’s been meddling now?” he cried. “Who’s been doing this?”
For, in place of the ruin he had expected, he found everything in the trimmest order—young crops sprung, trees pruned, walks clean, everything as it should be; and, worse than all, a broad-shouldered man, looking like himself, busy at work with a hoe destroying the weeds which had sprung up since the last shower.
Nat did not hesitate, but walked down the path, and at right angles on to the bed, where he hit the intruder on the chest with his doubled fist.
“So it’s you, is it, Samson?”
“Yes, it’s me, Nat,” was the reply; and the blow was returned.
“How are you, Samson?” said Nat; and he hit his brother again on the other side.
“Tidy, Nat. How are you?” replied Samson, returning the blow.
“You’ve got a bit stouter.”