And so this little cloud, light and swift, but still a cloud, blew over, and the sun shone out warm and brilliant again.
The buildings, which enclosed three sides of the quadrangle which they were now examining, were, with the exception of the stables, in such a state of dilapidation as very nearly to justify in sober earnest the term “ruins,” which he had half jocularly applied to them.
“You may laugh as you will,” said Alice, “but I think this might be easily made quite a beautiful place—prettier even than Wyvern.”
“Yes, very easily,” he laughed, “if a fellow had two or three thousand pounds to throw away upon it. Whenever I have—and I may yet,—you may restore, and transform, and do what you like, I’ll give you carte blanche, and in better hands I believe neither house nor money could be placed. No one has such taste—though it is hardly for me to say that.”
Just at that moment the clank of a horse-shoe was heard on the pavement, and, turning his head, Charles saw his man, Tom Sherwood, ride into the yard. Tom touched his hat and dismounted.
“A letter, sir.”
“Oh!” said Charles, letting go his wife’s arm, and walking quickly towards him.
The man handed him a letter. Alice was standing, forgotten for the time, on the middle of the pavement, while her husband opened and read his letter.
When he had done he turned about and walked a few steps towards her, but still thinking anxiously and plainly not seeing her, and he stopped and read it through again.
“Oh, darling, I beg your pardon, I’m so stupid. What were we talking about? Oh! yes, the house, this old place. If I live to succeed to Wyvern you shall do what you like with this place, and we’ll live here if you like it best.”