It was a ringing laugh that disturbed his reverie—a light, silvery sound that startled him more than words could tell. It was long since he had heard such a sound, long since such a laugh had echoed through the trees of that silent garden. He looked around in surprise at her. She blushed and smiled.
“I thought I had forgotten how to laugh,” she said. “I am quite as much surprised at myself as you can be at me.”
“What was it amused you?” he asked, quietly. And she showed him the nest with the live little birds in it.
“All the little mouths were open at once,” she said, “and the poor mother seemed so anxious to fill them. I had not seen such a pretty sight for years.”
He smiled, too, but it was rather at her childish delight than at anything else; but as he rode home his thoughts lingered with her.
“What can have happened?” he wondered. “Who can have been unkind to a creature so loving, so beautiful, so tender?”
That same day he rode over to Aldenmere. The contrast between these two fair women always amused and pleased him. Lady Hermione, so sweet, so wise, so womanly, her fair Saxon loveliness so full of calm and serenity, lofty, polished and graceful. Juliet Payton, with her dark, glowing beauty all afire, suppressed passion, genius, poetry, all made subservient to the one thing for which she cared most—the charm of solitude.
For the first time since Sir Ronald’s departure, he saw a cloud on the fair face of the Lady of Aldenmere.
“Have you had news of Sir Ronald?” he said, for knowing how completely heart and soul were absorbed in her husband, he could not understand anything else having the power to sadden her.
“No,” she replied, “not news direct. There was a long article in The Saturday about the expedition, saying it was very probable if they did all they intended and hoped to do they would not return for another year and a half yet. Ronald will be quite bronzed and so greatly changed.”