‘It’ meant Hazlehurst Manor, and the lands and fortune thereto belonging.
He was standing within a few yards of the yew-tree hedge, and just at this moment the green arch opposite him became the frame of a living picture, and that a lovely one.
Laura Malcolm stood there, bareheaded, dressed in black, with a basket of flowers upon her arm—Laura, whom he had no idea of meeting in this place.
The western sky was behind her, and she stood, a tall, slim figure in straight, black drapery, against a golden background, like a saint in an early Italian picture, an edge of light upon her chestnut hair making almost an aureole, her face in shadow.
For a few moments she paused, evidently startled at the apparition of a stranger, then recognised the intruder, and came forward and offered him her hand frankly, as if he had been quite a commonplace acquaintance.
‘Pray forgive me for coming in unannounced,’ he said; ‘I had no idea I should find you here. Yet it is natural that you should come sometimes to look at the old gardens.’
‘I am living here,’ answered Laura. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No, indeed. No one informed me of the change in your plans.’
‘I am so fond of the dear old house and garden, and the place is so full of associations for me, that I was easily induced to stay when Mr. Clare told me that it would be better for the house. I am a kind of housekeeper in charge of everything.’
‘I hope you will stay here all your life,’ said Treverton quickly, and then he coloured crimson, as if he had said something awful.