After the railway journey was ended, as they drove along the country roads, a faint color came into Millicent's face, faint and exquisite as the delicate bloom on the inner leaf of a wild rose, and a light shone in her eyes. New life had come to her. The trees seemed to spread out their grand branches as though to welcome her. The time was not so long since she had talked to them in her pretty childlike way, believing they could hear if not answer her. The life in that dull London house, where no green leaf was to be seen, faded like a heavy dream. She could have stretched out her hands to the trees, in fondest welcome. How had she lived so long without seeing them? A long, deep sigh escaped her. Lady Dartelle looked up.
"I hope you are not tired, Miss Holte?" she said.
"No, not at all, thank you; but the country looks so beautiful, and the trees are like dear old friends."
Her ladyship did not look very well pleased; she had not bargained for a sentimental governess.
"I hope," she returned stiffly, "you will find better friends at Hulme Abbey than the trees are likely to prove."
Another cry of delight escaped Hyacinth, for, on turning a sharp corner of the road, the sea lay spread out before them.
"Is Hulme Abbey near the sea?" she asked.
"Almost too near," said Lady Dartelle, "for when the wind blows and the tide is high we can hear the noise of the surf too plainly—that is the only fault that any one could possibly find with Hulme. Do you like the sea, Miss Holte?"
She did not know. She had seen it twice—once when the world was all fair and she was going to Bergheim, and again when the waves had sobbed a dull requiem to all her hope and her love. Did she like it? The very music seemed full of the sorrow of her life. She thought that she would soon grow to love it with a passion that only poets lavish on the fair beauties of nature. Then the gray turrets of the Abbey came in sight.
"We are at home," said Lady Dartelle.