But look down into one of the side-paths which leads into a jungle. There is Coutts Hadleigh moving through a maze. Contrary to everybody’s expectation, he has not married for money, but for a position in society. He has led to the altar the Honourable Miss Adelaide Beauchamp, the penniless daughter of a bankrupt peer. She uses his wealth in the vain effort to re-establish the position of her family. The master of the house is snubbed; and his presence is only required to attend those entertainments where the presence of a husband is supposed to give countenance and propriety to what is going forward.
On that merry racecourse down there is Wrentham, a white hat encircled by a blue veil on his head, a note-book in his hand. He is one of the most popular book-makers on the turf; and away in a quiet cottage are his wife and daughter, happy in the belief that he is engaged on important business, whilst he is drinking champagne, giving and taking the odds on the next race. Bob Tuppit sees him often; but they pass each other without recognition. Bob is content to turn an honest penny by his juggling craft, and to bring up his family respectably.
By-and-by there comes a stranger man out of the wilderness of foreign parts. He speaks to Sam Culver. The gardener knew him at once, and was in great glee that his old pupil should have found fortune in another land. So he took him to the cottage where Pansy was waiting on her grandfather, who had been at last persuaded to give up his ‘business rounds’ and settle down at Ringsford.
Caleb and Pansy were only a few minutes together when they came forward to the gardener, and the light on their faces seemed to suggest the burden of the rustic song—‘We’ll wander in the Meadows where the May-flowers grow.’[1]
THE END.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.
CHAPTER IX.
Among other visitors in search of the picturesque who had found their way to Stock Ghyll Force this morning was Mr Santelle, the stranger who had held the mysterious conversation with Jules the waiter. When half-way across the bridge, he paused to look at the waterfall, which from this point was visible in all its beauty. While standing thus, he was attracted by the sound of voices, and next moment his quick eyes had discovered Colonel Woodruffe and Madame De Vigne on a jutting point of rock half-way up the ravine. The lady he recognised, having seen her start that morning from the hotel with a party of friends; but the colonel was a stranger to him. Humming an air softly to himself, he paced slowly over the bridge and began to climb the path on the opposite side of the stream. When he had got about one-third of the way up, he reached a point where a more than usually dense growth of shrubs and evergreens shut out the view both of the waterfall and the ravine. Pausing here, Mr Santelle with deft but cautious fingers proceeded to part the branches of the evergreens till, from where he stood, himself unseen, he obtained a clear view of the group on the opposite side of the ravine. That group now consisted of three persons.
The approaching footsteps, the sound of which had put an end to the conversation between the colonel and Madame De Vigne, were those of M. De Miravel. He had spied them before they saw him. ‘Ah ha! Voilà le monsieur of the portrait!’ he said to himself. ‘What has my adorable wife been saying to him? She turns away her face—he hangs his head—neither of them speak. Eh bien! I propose to myself to interrupt this interesting tête-à-tête.’ He advanced, raised his hat, and smiling his detestable smile, made one of his most elaborate bows. ‘Pardon. I hope I am not de trop,’ he said.—‘Will you not introduce me to your friend, chère Madame De Vigne?’