Maida smiled and held up her chin, while her eyes modestly sought the ground. She mentioned that she and her friend were going to supper, and if Mrs Denwiddie cared to accompany her to the dining-room, she would introduce Mr Roe. That gentleman reappearing at the moment, the three went in together, and Mrs Denwiddie's sentimental tendencies had a treat in watching over the reunion and refreshment of two faithful lovers. Her eyes dwelt on the face of the gentleman with smiles of motherly solicitude, and she ministered to his wants whenever the waiter turned his back, passing him the sugar-basin, handing him jam and pickles, and pointing out the nicest kinds of cake, in a way as troublesome as it was well intended.
Maida was in glory--too happy to eat or drink. Her credit among women was vindicated at last. Evidence of her prowess was there present; the victim, a man of six feet stature, acknowledging her silken fetters. No one would ever say "old maid" to her again, or think it. She was transferred from the forlorn to the triumphant division of her sex, and it was altogether "just too delightful." Her merit, even in her own eyes, took new proportions. How true she must have been, and constant! And she began to perceive what a very superior nature was hers, to have cherished this beloved image for ten long years. And yet, in her modesty, she had been as little aware of the tenacity of her affection as of the enduring influence of her conquering charms. To think that she could have loved and waited so long! As if, poor soul, there had since appeared in her life any man on whom to bestow the treasure of her love. She had not hoped, far less expected, this felicity. The memory of ten years back had been but the remembered gleam of sunshine in a clouded existence, to be recurred to when other women flaunted their successes before her eyes--a testimony that she, too, had had her sip of love. Her soul overflowed with gratitude to this champion who had vindicated her equality with other women to herself and them, with humble trustful devotion.
The sensations were all so new as yet. By-and-by, doubtless, when ideas had had time to ferment, it would be different. Victorious beauty would as usual demand its dues, trifle with the captive's chains, and play at being imperious and exacting. For the present the game was all too new; she was too happy for common food, and pastured her eyes on the goodly proportions of her hero--his noble brow, his moustache, his nose, and all his manifold perfections. Timidly she pushed the buttered toast within his reach, and the anchovy paste, and watched the carefully divided mouthfuls of his meal as they were made away with.
Maida's heart was too full for speech, Gilbert's jaws were employed in mastication; wherefore they sat in silence, and Mrs Denwiddie, facing them with attentive eyes, was forced to feed her curiosity with sympathetic fancies.
"How much the poor dears must be thinking, when they speak so little! and how devoted Maida is, to be sure, pressing toast and anchovy upon her companion, and never touching a morsel herself! And what a very fine man the gentleman is, to be sure! And as for Maida herself, she really is not at all amiss--quite spry, in fact, and with a good colour, if she do be a little thin. But that will mend soon. There's nothing like a good heart to put flesh on the bones."
CHAPTER XVI.
[LIPPENSTOCK BAY].
The next morning early, ere yet the last night's arrivals were astir, there was bustle in the hotel. Omnibuses, carriages, buggies, and a few saddle-horses, waited before the door, and soon a loquacious company of pleasure-seekers, comprising three-fourths of all the guests, came down and were borne away.
Joseph Naylor had the buggy which led, Rose Hillyard by his side, as nearly always happened now--though he had many competitors who strove hard to supplant him. His luck or good management was remarkable; for somehow, though the lady was conspicuously gracious and encouraging to the rest, it was nearly always to him that it fell to escort her. Lucy Naylor and Lettice Deane were provided each with a horse and a cavalier; Margaret, in her riding-habit, was following; Peter Wilkie sprang forward to hold her stirrup, but it felt so warm that she changed her mind and followed her mother into a carriage, which changeableness the latter was far from approving; but Mrs Petty was beside her, and young Walter on the box, so nothing could be said, and if Peter's mother muttered "whimsical monkey," and looked cross, nobody minded. In ten minutes every one had mounted or scrambled into a place, and the company started away.
The air was still. The sea stretched like a mirror beneath the limpid sky, repeating in livelier tones its cerulean blueness and the pearly brightness of the clouds, save near the shore, where the reflections grew troubled in the swinging of the glassy swell which broke and crumbled in a fringe of glittering surf. There was no breeze, but the sun was low as yet, and the coolness of night still lingered in the air with a pleasant saltness and the scent of fresh sea-wrack cast up along the shore. It was a charming drive, that summer morning, along the even firmness of the beach, so smooth, and free from noise, jolt, or rattle. The fall of the horses' feet was scarcely audible, and the air was astir with the plashing of the breakers in faint monotonous resonance, a low and unobtrusive accompaniment to the blithesome voices of the merry-makers as they wended along.