The sun was still high in the heavens when cousin Sarah and her young companion left the farm, and took the pathway across the fields, with the intention of returning home by the road.
Under the shadow of lofty trees in delicate spring verdure, which now and then separated other fields from the pastures of Meadow Farm, through narrow lanes bordered with hedges of budding May blossom to the boundary of Englefield Park, which joined more than one of the farm meadows, Mary and her cousin walked, talking pleasantly of past days. Not a word, however, nor a reference to cousin Sarah's interference with Mr. Armstrong on Mr. Henry Halford's behalf passed that lady's lips.
Mary, also, was equally reticent; the subject was connected with too much pain to be spoken of lightly. In fact, she was endeavouring, with the calm determination of a strong will, to overcome the faintest signs of hope, and to banish for ever the memory which that hope kept alive in her heart.
Just before crossing the stile which led to the old coach road, they came upon a break between the trees, through which could be seen the rising ground of the park, and on the hill at a distance the imposing façade of Englefield House. Mary Armstrong had seen it on many former occasions, but she did not the less feel inclined to stand still and gaze on its noble aspect and picturesque surroundings.
"It is a lovely spot, cousin Sarah," she said, after a few moments' silence. "And is Lord Rivers still living? I remember meeting him on horseback once when I was walking with dear grandfather. He stopped to speak with him, and they talked so pleasantly for several minutes; and when he heard who I was he asked so kindly after mamma and papa! Oh, look, cousin Sarah! there are some ladies and children on the terrace."
This terrace to which Mary directed her cousin's attention formed one of the modern additions to the right wing of the house. It was approached from the side windows of the drawing-room, and sheltered by a verandah, from the roof and supports of which hung a magnificent westeria, with its drooping flowers like bunches of grapes.
It was too far distant to distinguish the faces of the children, but as the little ones flitted about on the terrace it could be seen that they were following the movements of a white shaggy dog, whose sharp, shrill bark of pleasure sounded faintly across the park.
"They are the children of Lady Dora Lennard," said cousin Sarah, as they turned to continue their walk; "I heard that she was staying with the earl for a few days till they go to London for the season."
"Then Lord Rivers, whom I met two years ago, is still living, and these are his grandchildren, I suppose?"
"Yes, the children of his youngest daughter, who married Sir William Lennard, and retains her own title of Lady Dora. Lord Rivers is still a fine old man at the age of sixty."