And she had answered, “Not yet, Cousin Robert, please don’t talk about it yet,” because the memory of Bert Mason, the young lover who had been killed in the war, was still too vivid for her to think of other ties. “But you are very dear to me and if ever—” Thus she had put him off.
While she had stood there talking to Robert Bucknor—young then and now old and dead and gone—Billy, with ashen face, had come to her with the news that Peyton, her beloved home, was completely destroyed by fire. She 95 had fainted. Young ladies usually fainted in those days when overcome by emotion. How the friends and cousins rallied around her with offers of assistance! They actually quarreled about her, so eager were they for her to visit them.
“You must make your home with me.”
“No, with me!”
“I must have part of her.”
“My turn is next,” and so on.
And then the owner of Buck Hill and his sweet wife had told her that their home was hers and she was ever to feel as free to be there as though she had been truly a daughter of the house. Then had begun the years of visiting for Ann Peyton. Her father had died a few weeks after the fire and later an only brother. She had more invitations to visit than she knew what to do with. Billy had been welcome, too, and there was always stable room for her horses and a place in the coach house for her carriage, no matter where she visited.
How many years had passed since that evening in June when she had stood in that spot and looked down on the crowd of young men and women? She dared not count, but there was the grandson of that Robert Bucknor, standing in the great hall and trying hard to 96 pretend to be interested in what a beautiful girl was saying to him. The beautiful girl was the one who had made the remark about a fancy dress ball. The grandson of Robert Bucknor had not heard her say it nor had he heard his sister’s cruel answer, as he had come into the hall the moment afterward. Now he was plainly bored, but trying to conceal it. The girl was chattering like a magpie. Suddenly Jeff looked up and saw Miss Ann.
“Oh, Cousin Ann!” he cried, bounding up the steps, two at a time, quite as his grandfather had done on that day so many, many years ago, “how lovely you look! I’d like to dance a minuet with you.” Then he gave her his arm and escorted her down the stairs. Supper was announced immediately and Jeff marched in with his aged cousin, much to the chagrin of Mildred, who had planned otherwise for her good-looking brother.
“Horrid old thing!” she said to Tom Harbison, who was dancing attendance on her. “Grabbing Jeff that way! How does she expect the men to go around if she takes one of the beaux?”