“Pardonnons—­nous!  Adieu!” he said, under his breath, in the language familiar to their student youth together.  Then he went straight out of the room, and through the dewy park, and misty woods already vocal with the awakening birds; he walked back to Beechmark, and for some hours shut himself into his library, where no one disturbed him.

When he emerged it was with the air of a man turning to a new chapter in life.  Geoffrey French was still with him.  Otherwise the big house was empty and seemed specially to miss the sounds of Helena’s voice, and tripping feet.  Buntingford enquired about her at once, and Geoffrey was able to produce a letter from Mrs. Friend describing the little Welsh Inn, near the pass of Aberglasslyn, where they had settled themselves; the delicious river, shrunken however by the long drought, which ran past their windows, and the many virtues—­qualified by too many children—­of the primitive Welsh pair who ran the inn.

“I am to say that Miss Pitstone likes it all very much, and has found some glorious things to draw.  Also an elderly gentleman who is sketching on the river has already promised her a lesson.”

“You’ll be going down there sometime?” said Buntingford, turning an enquiring look on his nephew.

“The week-end after next,” said Geoffrey—­“unless Helena forbids it.  I must inspect the inn, which I recommended—­and take stock of the elderly gentleman!”

The vision of Helena, in “fresh woods and pastures new” radiantly transfixing the affections of the “elderly gentleman,” put them both for the moment in spirits.  Buntingford smiled, and understanding that Geoffrey was writing to his ward, he left some special messages for her.

But in the days that followed he seldom thought of Helena.  He buried his wife in the village church-yard, and the wondering villagers might presently read on the headstone he placed over her grave, the short inscription—­“Anna Buntingford, wife of Philip, Lord Buntingford,” with the dates of her birth and death.  The Alcotts, authorized by Philip, made public as much of the story as was necessary, and the presence of the poor son and heir in the Welwyns’ house, together with his tragic likeness to his father, both completed and verified it.  A wave of unspoken but warm sympathy spread through the countryside.  Buntingford’s own silence was unbroken.  After the burial, he never spoke of what had happened, except on one or two rare occasions to John Alcott, who had become his intimate friend.  But unconsciously the attitude of his neighbours towards him had the effect of quickening his liking for Beechmark, and increasing the probability of his ultimate settlement there, at least for the greater part of the year.