WE went down to Richmond early in the afternoon—a true July afternoon—sultry and still. The air was full of a dreamy haze that softened the outlines of objects without hiding them. Even the brilliant colours of the flower-beds seemed to be subdued as we passed the well-kept gardens, where women in light summer dresses were sitting under awnings, and men were taking their ease in cane chairs. We had decided not to go upon the overcrowded river, and William Greystock led his little party straight to the lower park.
It was a very small party, and yet, at this hour, I have but a very faint recollection of those who wandered with me under the old trees that day. I saw but two persons, my husband and Ida Lorimer. The others seemed to move about them like phantoms; and I think I must have looked and spoken as if I were in a dream.
The picture of Ida is stamped indelibly upon my memory. She wore a large straw hat of some fantastic shape, lined with pale blue, and adorned with a bunch of tea roses. Her gown, too, was a combination of cream-colour and blue, and, as she moved languidly over the grass, she reminded me of one of those Watteau-like figures that are painted on fans.
She took very little notice of me, greeting me with a cool courtesy which I repaid with some haughtiness. Ronald was watching our meeting with a furtive glance, and did not seem to be as much at ease as usual. William Greystock, too, watched, and his face was as inscrutable as ever.
Miss Lorimer took possession of my husband in the most natural way in the world. She displayed no coquettish airs; she did not appear to make any marked exhibition of power; but quite easily and calmly she summoned him to her side with a few commonplace words.
"Let us try to get nearer to those deer," she said. "I keep up my old fondness for animals, and deer are the most delightful creatures in the universe."
It was a clever way of separating herself and Ronald from the rest of the party. He attended her, willingly enough; they went together towards the herd, which, of course, moved off at their nearer approach; and then the pair followed, although they must have known the uselessness of the pursuit.
My glance went after them, over the soft grass, now golden with the light of the afternoon sun. What a fair scene it was, those great trees casting their shadows across the sunlit turf; the dappled herds, the mellow haze filling up every space, the two graceful figures moving farther and farther away!
With a start, I found William Greystock close to my side, and heard him speaking to me in a peculiarly quiet voice.
"I used to dream of walking here with some dear friend, Mrs. Hepburne," he said. "An afternoon like this always revives old dreams. Mine have never been realised; Ronald has been more fortunate than I have."