"Is it? Never mind." And Wilton, after casting an eager look up a pathway which led from the beech-tree into the grounds of Brosedale, gathered up the reins and drove rapidly home.
It was about a week after the Brosedale dinner that Wilton had sallied forth, intending to ride over to Monkscleugh. He had nearly resigned the idea of ever encountering his fair fellow-traveller again, though he could not shake off the conviction that the slight dim figure which had flitted from out the shade of the beech-tree, across the moonlight, and into the gloom of the Brosedale plantations, was that of Miss Rivers. Still, it was most strange that she should be there at such an hour—half-past ten at least—rather too enterprising for a young lady. Yet, if Moncrief had not been with him, he would certainly have given chase, and satisfied himself as to the identity of the child or woman who had crossed their path.
On this particular afternoon, however, Wilton's thoughts were occupied by the letters he had received that morning, one of which was from Lord St. George, who wrote to remind him of his promise to call when he passed through London again. The viscount also mentioned that a former friend of his, the Earl of D——, would be in his (Wilton's) neighborhood early in November, and would probably call upon him.
Wilton smiled as he read this, remembering that the earl had three unmarried daughters. "A young gentleman," the writer continued, "calling himself St. George Wilton, left a card here some days ago, and was good enough to say that he would call again, which enabled me to forbid his admittance. He did repeat the attempt, when he told my valet, whom he asked to see, that he was going to Scotland, and would probably see Colonel Wilton, if I had any commands. I imagine my obliging namesake is a son of Fred Wilton, who was in the navy—but not exactly the type of an honest, simple sailor. I would advise you not to be on too cousinly terms. I have heard, even in my cell, of the young gentleman's diplomatic astuteness."
Pondering on this epistle, and smiling at the sudden interest evinced toward him by the eccentric peer, Wilton rode leisurely toward Monkscleugh, enjoying the splendid golden evening tinge in the sky, the rich and varied hues of wood and moorland, when a sudden turn in the road brought him face to face with a slight, gray figure, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and carrying a small parcel. In an instant all the half-scorned but potent longings, the vivid picture-like recollections of tones and glances, that had haunted him even while he laughed at himself for being pervaded by them—all these absurd fancies he had so nearly shaken off rushed back in a torrent, and made his pulses leap at the immediate prospect of solving many mysteries.
He was dismounted and at her side in an instant. "I thought you had vanished—that I had lost you forever!" he exclaimed, with the sort of well-bred impetuosity peculiar to his manner; while, seeing that she made no motion to hold out her hand, he only lifted his hat.
The faint color came to her cheek as she raised her eyes frankly to his, with a brighter, merrier smile than he had seen upon her lip before. "Nevertheless, I have not been very far away."
"Have you been at Brosedale all the time—then how is it we have not met?"
"I cannot tell; but I have been at Brosedale."
Wilton threw the reins over his arm, and walked on beside her. "And are you all right again—recovered from your fright, and had sleep enough?" looking at her eagerly as he spoke, and noting the soft lustre of her eyes, the clear, pale cheek, the ripe red though not full lips, all so much fairer and fresher than when they parted.