Sparks left the room, and Mrs Bowood put away her unfinished letter in the davenport. ‘What can have become of Mr Boyd?’ she said to herself. ‘I have seen nothing of him since breakfast. Probably, he and Laura are somewhere in the grounds together; if so, poor Sir Frederick will have to find another opportunity.’
As the Baronet, holding his umbrella over his head, paced slowly down one of the winding sunny walks that led from the house, he kept a careful watch on other walks to right and left of him. He was evidently looking out for some one in particular. ‘Why delay longer? Why not do it to-day and at once?’ he was asking himself as he walked along. ‘I have purposely kept away from her for five days, only to find that her image dwells more persistently in my thoughts than ever. It is true that she rejected me once; but that was many years ago, when I was a poor man, and it is no reason why she should reject me a second time. She was a romantic school-girl then; she is a woman of the world now. Yes; the match is a desirable one in every way for both of us. She has money, and I have position. As the wife of Sir Frederick Pinkerton, she would be a very different personage from the widow of a City drysalter; and then her income added to mine would make a very comfortable thing.’ The Baronet would seem to have been unaware of that particular clause in the late Sir Thomas’s will by which his widow would be deprived of nearly the whole of her fortune in case she should marry again. It is possible that his ardour might have cooled down in some measure, had he been made aware of that important fact.
Presently he saw the object of his thoughts turn a corner of the path a little distance away. Her eyes were bent on the ground, and she did not see him. He stood still for a moment or two, watching her with a critical air. He flattered himself that he had a fastidious taste in most things that a gentleman should be fastidious about, and in women most of all. ‘She will do—she will do!’ he muttered to himself with an air of complacency. ‘She is really charming. She shall be Lady Pinkerton before she is three months older.’
Lady Dimsdale happened to look up at this moment. She could not repress a little start at the sight of Sir Frederick.
The Baronet pulled up his collar the eighth of an inch, squared his shoulders, and went slowly forward.
Laura Dimsdale was a tall, graceful-looking woman. She was fair, with a lovely clear complexion, which, especially when she became at all animated, had not yet lost all the tints of girlhood. She had large hazel eyes, instinct with sweetness and candour, delicately arched eyebrows, and a mass of brown silky hair. If the usual expression of her face when alone, or when not engaged in conversation, was not exactly one of melancholy, it was at least that of a woman who has lived and suffered, and to whom the world has taught more than one bitter lesson. And yet in the old days at the vicarage, which now seemed so far away, there had been no merrier-hearted girl than Laura Langton; and even now, after all these years, the boundary that divided her tears from her smiles was a very narrow one. She was gifted with a keen sense of humour, and it did not take much to cause her eyes to fill with laughter and her mobile lips to curve into a merry mocking smile.
Sir Frederick lifted his hat, and twisted his mouth into a smile that was a capital advertisement for his dentist. ‘This is indeed an agreeable surprise, Lady Dimsdale. I came in search of Captain Bowood, and I find—you!’
‘How cleverly you hide your disappointment, Sir Frederick!’ She gave him her fingers for a moment as she spoke. ‘As I have not seen the Captain since breakfast, I cannot tell you where to look for him. But you have been quite a truant during the last few days. We have all missed you.’ There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she said these words.
‘Hum, hum. You flatter me, Lady Dimsdale. Business of importance took me to town for a few days.’ He had turned with her, and was now pacing slowly by her side. ‘Do you know, Lady Dimsdale,’ he went on presently, ‘that I never see a garden nowadays which seems half so charming to me as that dear, delightful wilderness of old-fashioned flowers behind your father’s vicarage?’
‘It was certainly a wilderness, and very old-fashioned into the bargain; but the flowers that grew there were very sweet.’