“Better come upstairs with me, Hope. I am just going,” said Avice, rising from the sofa and slipping her hand through her cousin’s arm. The singers, contrite at their own lack of consideration, busied themselves putting away the music, and gathered into little groups round the piano, so that Mr Merrilies and the two girls were alone in their corner, and their conversation was not overheard. “I am afraid we have been very selfish,” he said, looking at Hope’s tired face; “but the music has been such a pleasure that we have gone on and on without noticing the time, and Miss Charrington was too good-natured to remind us that she was growing tired.”
“Hope never thinks of herself,” said Avice quietly; and the colour flamed into Hope’s white cheeks and her blue eyes brightened with pleasure at this unexpected tribute. Avice—Avice the languid, the undemonstrative—to praise her aloud, and in company! She was too much taken aback to protest in the conventional way, but she noticed that Mr Merrilies looked even more pleased than herself. He smiled at Avice with a new interest in his eyes, and said quickly:
“In that case it is our duty to look after her. I should suggest fresh air in the first place. How is it that she never joins us at our out-of-door luncheons?”
“She stays at home to help mother; but she shall come to-morrow. I will bring her,” replied Avice in a voice that for once was not languid, but quite brisk and decided. Wonders would never cease! Could it be that friendship for a girl of her own age was about to rouse the listless Avice to an active interest in the life which was going on around her!
Chapter Twelve.
A Shooting Luncheon.
It was with the exultation of a child on a holiday that Hope prepared to start for the picnic lunch the next day. Hitherto she had watched the departure of the other ladies with a spasm of not unnatural envy, but now she was going herself. The day was bright and mild, and it was so pleasant to drive in the open behind Pipeclay, the little white pony which was Avice’s special favourite. Truda had driven on ahead with the luncheon-baskets, accompanied by a young married lady who was the latest addition to the house-party, so the two cousins were alone, and could talk together without fear of interruption. Hope was all brightness and animation, for she was experiencing at that moment a mysterious lightness of heart which made her see everything through rose-coloured spectacles. She admired everything—the grey stretches of the landscape, the outline of the trees against the skies, the tumble-down cottages by the roadside—while Avice listened to her animated talk with a wistful smile on her face.
“You enjoy everything, Hope. How do you manage it? I wish I knew your secret, for to me it all seems so stale and uninteresting. I do not believe there is anything in the world which would make me so bright and happy as you seem this morning.”