A man
on a deep-chested strong-limbed gray horse was riding slowly towards them
across the grass--Daniel Granger.
That picture of his wife walking in the little avenue of limes, with George
Fairfax by her side, haunted Mr. Granger with a strange distinctness in
days to come,--the slight white-robed figure against the background of
sunlit greenery; the young man's handsome head, uncovered, and stooping a
little as he spoke to his companion.
The master of Arden Court dismounted, and led his horse by the bridle as
he came forward to meet Mr. Fairfax. The two men shook hands; but not very
warmly. The encounter mystified Daniel Granger a little. It was strange to
find a man he had supposed to be at the other end of England strolling in
the park with his wife, and that man the one about whom he had had many
a dreary half-hour of brooding. He waited for an explanation, however,
without any outward show of surprise. The business was simple and natural
enough, no doubt, he told himself.
"Have you been to the house?" he asked; "I have been out all the morning."
"No; I was on my way there, when I came upon Mrs. Granger in the most
romantic spot yonder. I felt that I was rather early for a morning-call
even in the depths of the country, and had strolled out of the beaten path
to get rid of an hour or so."
"I did not know you were in Yorkshire," said Mr. Granger, not in the most
cordial tone.
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