Spots of interest, either by reason of their own beauty, or sometimes from historic association, now and then indeed combining both, were usually chosen for the scene of the picnics.
One of the last to which the Lermonts and their guests were bidden was given by Mr Gresham himself, and he had bestowed much thought and consideration upon its locality.
Nor were his labours unrewarded. It proved to be one of the most successful parties of the season, and but for an incident which momentarily affected Philippa unpleasantly by recalling events which the last fortnight, with its sunshine and distractions, had almost ended by banishing from her memory altogether, the day would have been one of unalloyed enjoyment.
The picnic was to be at an old château a few miles off. An old “manor-house,” with remains of the domestic fortification necessary in those turbulent medieval times, would perhaps better describe it. For it had never been large, and now one part of it had fallen into picturesque ruin, while the remainder had been not unskilfully restored, more strictly speaking, perhaps, kept in repair, without any jarring modern innovations such as the French positif way of looking at such things often introduces.
The château had not descended to the rank only of a farm-house, for its owners, the bearers of a name which would at once serve to identify the original home of the family, still visited it from time to time. And during most of the year, with good-nature, not unmingled very probably with legitimate pride in the old, old home, they allowed any who cared to do so, to visit it, and wander all over the demesne and the château itself with perfect freedom.
It lay, however, somewhat off the usual routes of pleasure-seekers, and was less known than it deserved to be. Maida Lermont had never seen it, and though her eyes lighted up with pleasure at the idea of a visit, some doubts were expressed by her mother as to whether the distance and the reported roughness of the roads would not make it too fatiguing for her.
“Oh, mamma,” she exclaimed, speaking for once with almost the disappointment of a child in her voice, “please don’t say so. The Château de C— is one of the places I have longed to see ever since we came.”
Philippa glanced at her affectionately. Maida’s “humanness” was one of the characteristics that attracted her young relation to her so much. She never, notwithstanding the long discipline of her life, affected to be above or apart from the natural tastes and interests of those about her.
“I won’t go, if you don’t,” whispered Miss Raynsworth, stooping over Maida.
But Bernard Gresham caught the words; a slight frown, showed itself on his face. He was pleased—more than pleased indeed—to gratify Miss Lermont, whom he cordially liked and admired, but for Philippa to suggest giving up the expedition for Maida’s sake, when she must in her heart have known that he had planned it all for her, was most annoying. And for the first time he mentally accused Miss Raynsworth of affectation.