Part 40 (2/2)

One August afternoon Ida had, for once in a way, succeeded in making her domestic occupations an excuse for absenting herself from what Bessie called a 'barrow-hunt' on the downs. Brian Wendover being a great authority upon this ancient form of sepulture, and discoursing eloquently on those widely different races whose funeral chambers are hidden under the long and the round barrow.

The day, closely as Ida had been occupied, had seemed just a little dreary, certainly much duller than such days had been wont to seem before Brian's return to the Abbey: yet she was glad to be alone; it was a relief even to be a trifle melancholy, rather than to enjoy that happiness which was always blended with a faint consciousness of wrong-doing. And now the slow day was nearly over: she had worked at the village girls'-school in the morning; she had lectured upon domestic economy to a cla.s.s of incipient house-maids and scullery maids after luncheon; and now at five o'clock she was sitting in a basket chair in the rose-wreathed verandah working at the swallows and bulrushes upon that elaborate design which she had begun before Christmas for the adornment of Miss Wendover's piano.

It was a deliciously drowsy afternoon, but Ida's active brain was not p.r.o.ne to slumber. She sat working diligently and thinking deeply, when a shadow came between her and the suns.h.i.+ne and on looking up she saw Mr.

Wendover standing before her.

'How do you do? Have they all come home?' she asked, laying aside her work on the convenient basket table and preparing to welcome Aunt Betsy.

'I have not been with them--at least not since the morning, answered Brian. 'I left Bessie to hunt out her own barrows; she is so lazy-minded that as long as I do all the pointing she will never know the true barrow from the natural lumpiness of the soil. Besides, she has Aunt Betsy, a tower of strength in all things.'

'And Miss Rylance, I suppose?'

'No, Miss Rylance thought there would be too much walking for her or for Pinet. I have been at the Abbey all day, getting up my arrears of correspondence. This fine weather has made me incorrigibly idle. After I had written about a score of letters I thought myself ent.i.tled to a little rest and refreshment, so I strolled over here to tell you some news and to ask you for a cup of tea.'

'You shall have some tea directly,' said Ida, going indoors to ring the bell, an act in which she was naturally antic.i.p.ated by her guest. 'What news can you possibly have that concerns me?' she asked, when they had come back to the verandah. 'I know by your face that it is not bad news.'

'G.o.d forbid I should ever have to tell you that. I think it would hurt me more than you,' said Brian, with an earnestness which brought the crimson glow into Ida's cheeks, and made her bend a little lower over the swallows in her crewel-work. 'No, this is pleasant news I hope. I wrote to Vernon Palliser more than a month ago to propose that I should drive you and a lot of people over to luncheon. He was in Switzerland, as usual, and I had no answer to my letter till the second post to-day, when I received a most hearty invitation to bring my party immediately. But you shall hear your cousin's own words.'

Mr. Wendover produced the letter and read as follows:--

'I shall be delighted to make my cousin's acquaintance. She was in England when I last saw her father at his retreat near Dieppe. Bring her as soon as you can, and with as large a party as you like--the larger the better, and the sooner the better--as Peter and I will most likely be on the wing again for Scotland soon after the twelfth. We shall come back for the partridges, which I hear are abundant. The road is rather intricate, so you had better bring your ordnance map, but pretty fair in dry weather like this; and you'll come through some lovely scenery.

Telegraph your time, and Peter and I will be in the way to welcome you!'

'What do you say to our going to-morrow? I waited to know what you would like before I telegraphed.'

'You are very good: but there are others to be consulted,' replied Ida, with her head still bent over her work.

Good manners demanded that she should look at him, but at this particular moment she felt it quite impossible to be mannerly. He had said nothing of a thrilling nature, yet his whole tone and expression, his air of deferential regard, stirred a new feeling in her mind--the conviction that he cared for her more than it was well for either of them that he should care.

'You are the first person to be consulted,' he said; 'would you like to go to-morrow?'

'I will go whenever the others like,' answered Ida, still intent upon the shading of her swallow's wing; 'but I really think you had better leave me out of your party--I have wasted so much time roaming about--and there are so many things I want to finish before the summer is over.'

'That elaborate arrangement in swallows and rushes, for instance,' said Brian, laughingly: 'you are working at it as if for a wager. Perhaps it is a wager--so many st.i.tches in so many consecutive days--is that it? No, Miss Palliser, your swallows must wait. The party has been planned on your account, and to leave you at home would be like leaving Hamlet out of the play. Besides, I thought you would like to see your cousins and your ancestral halls.'

'I shall be very glad to see my cousins, for my father likes them very much; but I do not feel any thrilling interest in the ancestral halls.'

'And yet your father was born there.'

'Yes, that is a reason for being interested in Wimperfield. But my father has so seldom talked about his birthplace. He speaks a great deal more of India. That life in a strange far-away land seems to have blotted out the memory of his childhood. He talks of Addis...o...b..sometimes but hardly ever of Wimperfield.'

She laid aside her work as the youthful butler brought out the tea-table.

It was no new thing for her to pour out Mr. Wendover's tea, since it was his custom to drop in at his aunt's very often at this hour, when the day had not been given up to excursionising; but it was new for her to be alone with him at this social meal, and she found herself longing ardently for Aunt Betsy's return.

She who could have found so much to talk about had her mind been at ease, was curiously silent as she handed Mr. Wendover his tea, and offered the cake and fruit, which always accompanied the meal at the Homestead. Her heart was beating much faster than it should have done, and she was considering whether it was worth while to place herself in the way of feeling the pain, the hidden shame, the sense of falsehood which oppressed her at this moment; whether it would not be better to run any risk, even the hazard of offending Betsy Wendover, the kindest friend she had in the world, rather than remain in her present position.

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