It was a fine old house, half-timbered, nestling in the valley, almost hidden in trees and covered with ivy. The gardens had been the special joy of Sir James Watson. It was here he led his simple home life away from the factions of Westminster and the labours of his thankless office.
He was a cold, haughty, reserved man, with few friends. His one joy in a rather lonely life was his daughter Mabel. Like so many widowers with an only daughter, he was somewhat selfish, and could never believe that she had grown up. He had watched with anxiety the attentions which had been paid to her by the many who had appeared as possible suitors.
She, unconscious of it all, had led a secluded life among her flowers; she hated the times she had to spend in the gloomy house in Town, and had no liking for London or its gaieties.
Her mother had died when she was a baby, and no cloud of sorrow except one had crossed her path.
That one had been when her brother, quite a boy, had been sent down from Oxford, and her father had sternly pointed to the door, and told him never to come back till he had redeemed his character.
He had provided ample funds for the young man to make a fresh start, and had recommended him to the care of an old friend in Monte Video. He had refused to tell his daughter where the brother had gone, lest they should write to each other.
Mabel had been only a child at the time, but she never forgot her brother. As she sat in the garden after breakfast no shadow crossed her mind. The letters and papers had not arrived, as they were out of the beaten track.
John, the butler, approached her from the house with a salver, on which he bore a visiting card.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, Miss Mabel,” he said, and handed the card. She took it and read,
Mr. Sylvester Collins,
14, Severn Street,
London, W.