The settlement of the affairs of Anthony Lynn occupied Sir Thomas much longer than he expected, and the autumn found the family still at de Wick. For other reasons, this delay in the retirement of the country had seemed advisable. Stephen had escaped, as had also his companion conspirators, Mason and Blythe; and Matilda could not but compliment herself a little on her share in securing their safety. But the plot and its consequences had kept London on the alert all summer. Little of this excitement reached them. Sir Thomas was busy laying out a garden after a plan of Mr. Evelyn’s; Lady Jevery was making perfumes and medicinal waters, washes for the toilet and confections for the table. Matilda was out walking or riding with Cymlin Swaffham, or sitting with him in the shady garden or in the handsome rooms of de Wick. Her uncle had presented her with a fine organ, but her lute suited her best, and she knew well what a beautiful picture she made, singing to its tinkling music. If Cymlin was in the hall, she came down the stairway—flooded with coloured lights from its painted windows—lute in hand, singing—singing of young Adonis or cruel Cupid; her rich garments trailing, her white hands flashing, her face bent to her adorer, her voice filling the space with melody. Or she sat in the window, with the summer scents and sun around her, musically mocking Love, as if he never had or never could touch her. Cymlin knew all her entrancing ways, and followed her in them with wonderful prudence. No word of his great affection passed his lips; he let his eyes and his actions speak for him; and there had been times when Matilda, provoked by his restraint, had used all her fascinations to compel his confession. But she had to deal with a man of extraordinary patience, one who could bide his time, and he knew his time had not yet come. Towards the middle of September Sir Thomas roused himself from his life among flowers and shrubs, and said he must go back to London. He was expecting some ships with rich cargoes, and the last flowers were beginning to droop, and the rooks were complaining, as they always do when the mornings are cold; the time for the outdoor life was ended; he had a sudden desire for his wharf and his office, and the bearded, outlandish men that he would meet there. And as the ladies also wished to return to London, the beautiful home quickly put on an air of desertion. Boxes littered the hall; they were only waiting until the September rain-storm should pass away, and the roads become fit for travel. At this unsettled time, and in a driving shower, Cymlin and Doctor Verity were seen galloping up the avenue one evening. Every one was glad at the prospect of news and company, Sir Thomas so much so, that he went to the door to meet the Doctor. "Nobody could be more welcome," he said; "and pray, what good fortune brings you here?"