letter; there was
nothing strange in this silence yet it vexed and disquieted him. On the
fourth day of his waiting, the weather suddenly broke, rain fell in
torrents, and continued for forty-eight hours. Had not the Coppingers'
house been open to him he must have spent a wretched time. Returning to
the hotel on the second evening of deluge, he looked in at the
post-office, and this time a letter was put into his hand. He opened
and read it at once.

"Dear old boy, why the deuce have you gone away to the end of the earth
without letting me know? I called at your place this evening, and was
amazed at the sight of the address which your evil-eyed woman showed
me--looking as if she feared I should steal it. I wanted particularly
to see you. How long are you going to stay down yonder? Rosamund and I
start _for our honeymoon_ on Thursday next, and we shall probably be
away for a couple of months, in Tyrol. Does this astonish you? It
oughtn't to, seeing that you've done your best to bring it about. Yes,
Rosamund and I are going to be married, with the least possible delay.
I'll tell you all the details some day--though there's very little to
tell that you don't know. Congratulate me on having come to my senses.
How precious near I was to making a tremendous fool of myself. It's you
I have to thank, old man. Of course, as you saw, I should never have
cared for any one but Rosamund, and it's pretty sure that she would
never have been happy with any one but me. I wanted you to be a witness
at our wedding, and now you've bolted, confound you! Write to my London
address, and it will be forwarded."

Will thrust the letter into his pocket, went out into the street, and
walked to the hotel through heavy rain, without thinking to open his
umbrella.

Next morning, the sky was clear again, the sunny air fresh as that of
spring. Will rose earlier than usual, and set out on an excursion. He
took train to Hendaye, the little frontier town, at the mouth of the
Bidassoa, crossed the river in a boat, stepped on to Spanish soil, and
climbed the hill on which stands Fuenterabbia.

Later he passed again to the French shore, and lunched at the hotel.
Then he took a carriage, and drove up the gorge of Bidassoa, enjoying
the wild mountain scenery as much as he had enjoyed anything in his
life. The road bridged the river; it brought him into Spain once more,
and on as far as to the Spanish village of Vera, where he lingered in
the mellowing af