Many things might have happened in that interval.  What more likely than that Sanghurst had found a wife, and that his old affection for Joan would by now be a thing of the past?  The knight fumed a good deal as he thought of neglected opportunities.  But there was just the chance that Sanghurst might be faithful to his old love, whilst surely Joan would have forgotten her girlish caprice, and cease to attempt a foolish resistance to her father’s will.  Had he been as much in earnest then as he now was, the marriage would long ago have been consummated.  But in old days he had not felt so confident of the wealth of the Sanghursts as he now did, and had been content to let matters drift.  Now he could afford to drift no longer.  Joan had made no marriage for herself, she was unwed at an age when most girls are wives and mothers, and Sir Hugh was growing weary of her company.  He wished to plunge once again into a life of congenial dissipation, and into those researches for magic wealth which had always exercised so strong a fascination over him; and the first step necessary for both these objects appeared to be to marry off his daughter, and that, if possible, to the man who was supposed to be in possession of these golden secrets.

Joan, however, knew nothing of the hopes and wishes filling her father’s mind.  She was glad to come back to the home she had always loved the best of her father’s residences, and which was so much associated in her mind with her youthful lover.

She believed that so near to Guildford she would be sure to hear news of Raymond.  Master Bernard de Brocas would know where he was; he might even be living beneath his uncle’s roof.  The very thought sent quick thrills of happiness through her.  Her face was losing its thoughtful gravity of expression, and warming and brightening into new beauty.  She had almost forgotten the proximity of Basildene, and Peter Sanghurst’s hateful suit, so long had been the time since she had seen him last, until the sound of his voice, breaking in upon a happy reverie, brought all the old disgust and horror back again, and she turned to face him with eyes that flashed with lambent fire.

Yet as she stood there in the entrance to that leafy bower which was her favourite retreat at Woodcrych, Peter Sanghurst felt as though he had never before seen so queenly a creature, and said in his heart that she had grown tenfold more lovely during the years of her wanderings.

Joan was now no mere strip of a girl.  She was three-and-twenty, and had all the grace of womanhood mingling with the free, untrammelled energy of youth.  Her step was as light, her movements as unfettered, as in the days of her childhood; yet now she moved with an unconscious stately grace which caused her to be remarked wherever she went; and her face, always beautiful, with its regular features, liquid dark eyes, and full, noble expression, had taken an added depth and sweetness and thoughtfulness which rendered it