He had not, that day, gone to shoot; the men were all abroad; nearly all the ladies were out driving or riding, save Ida, whom he found in the curtained oriel of the inner drawing-room, where she was standing alone and gazing out on the far-stretching landscape, that was steeped in the evening sunshine; the square spire of the village church, the tossing arms of an old windmill, the yellow-thatched roofs of white-walled cottages stood out strongly against the dark green of the woodlands at the end of a long vista of the chase, and made a charming picture. In the middle distance was some pasture land, where several of Sir Carnaby's fierce little Highland cattle and great fat brindled Alderneys stood knee-deep amid the rich grass.
Perhaps she was thinking of how often she had ridden there with Beverley, and loved to hear him compliment her on the daring grace and ease with which she topped her fences, and the lightness of hand with which she lifted her bay cob's head; and Jerry feared that some such thoughts might be passing through her mind as he paused irresolutely and thought how beautiful was the outline and pose of her darkly dressed figure against the flood of light that poured through the painted oriel.
The dark shadow had been less upon her to-day than usual, and on hearing his footstep on the soft carpet she turned and welcomed him with a bright smile. Would that smile ever change again to coldness and gloom? Would his hand ever again wander lovingly and half fatuously among the richness of her auburn hair, that shone like plaits of golden sheen in the light? Heaven alone knew.
'Dear Ida,' said he, longing, but not venturing to take her hand (he had been on the point of saying 'darling'—had he not been privileged once to do so?), 'I am so glad to find you thus alone, for I have much to say, too, that cannot brook interruption.'
'Say on, then, Jerry,' said she, knowing too surely it would be 'the old, old story,' while his devotion seemed to touch and pain her, for she did honour and pity him, as she had already admitted.
'Ida, save on that night in the conservatory, I have hitherto, from motives that you must be well aware of—motives most pure and honourable—never spoken to you of the love that my heart has never, never ceased to feel for you.'
'Love is no word for me to listen to now, Jerry.'
'Not from—from me?'
'Even from you, Jerry.'
'I implore you to be mine, Ida. Do not weep—do not turn away—you stand alone now; this recent marriage has made your home a broken one; I, too, am alone, and each needs the love of the other. Do not trifle with me, Ida!'