“Isn’t it handsome!” asked Helen’s voice behind her.
“I hope you are not thinking of wearing it this evening,” said Rhoda. “It’s a most unsuitable dress for a country merry-making. Do put on something plainer, Helen.”
“O Rhoda,” she pleaded, “I am not like you; I can’t abide browns and greys! I want to be dressed as the flowers are! You loved the lilacs when they were in bloom; why may I not copy them?”
“Their dress costs nothing,” said Rhoda, “and the silk is a poor imitation of them. Even Solomon in all his glory wasn’t arrayed like the lilies of the field. This gown must have been very expensive, Helen.”
“It is the best I have,” answered Helen, flushing slightly. “I should like to give it an airing, Rhoda. I own I am fond of fine clothes, but you are so kind that you won’t be angry with a poor silly thing like me!”
Again Rhoda’s strength was no match for her cousin’s weakness. She went out of the room without saying another word about the lilac silk. An hour or two later William Gill’s chaise stopped at the gate, and Helen came downstairs. She was enveloped in a large cloak which completely hid her dress from the eyes of her uncle and aunt. Her face was flushed; she was in high spirits. William Gill—a prosperous young farmer—looked sheepishly pleased as she seated herself by his side.
Rhoda sat on the back seat with Mrs. Gill. It was a still, sultry evening. The languor of the waning summer seemed to have stolen upon her unawares, and the good woman found her a dull companion. Mrs. Gill was proud of her son, proud of his fine horse, a fiery young chestnut, proud of the chaise, which had been newly painted and varnished. But these subjects had little interest for Miss Farren. And the worthy matron became convinced that she was giving herself airs on the strength of her annuity. By the time they had reached the foot of Huntsdean hill, she was as silent as Rhoda could desire.
The church clock was striking seven as they turned in at the gates of Dykeley Park. Groups of people were scattered about under the trees. The hall door of Dykeley House stood open, and the sound of music swept forth into the evening air. Out of doors there was the crimson of sunset staining the skies, reddening the faces of the countryfolk, and lighting up the west front of the old mansion, till its red bricks seemed to burn among the dark ivy and overblown white roses. Quiet pools, lying here and there about the park, glittered as if the old Cana miracle had been wrought upon them, and their waters were changed to wine. The colour was too intense, too fiery. It made Rhoda think of burning cities, or of the glare of beacons, blazing up to warn the land that the foe had crossed the border.
Squire Derrick’s old banqueting hall had been cleared out for the dancers. The squire himself, a bachelor of sixty, received his guests as Sir Roger de Coverley might have done. Rhoda saw his eyes rest on beautiful Helen in the lilac silk, and his glance followed her wonderingly as she went sweeping away to a distant part of the great room. Other looks followed her too.
Nor could Rhoda keep her own gaze from dwelling on her companion. When the long cloak had been laid aside, and Helen appeared in the lighted room, her cousin could hardly restrain an exclamation. There were jewels on her wrists and bosom, jewels on the white fingers that flashed when she took off her gloves to display them. A miserable sense of shame and confusion overwhelmed Miss Farren. Here was Helen bedizened like a Begum, and here were many of the Huntsdean folk who knew her husband’s story! The air seemed full of whispers. Rhoda grew hot beneath the broad stare of eyes. Yet few glanced at her; the brown wren, reluctantly perched beside the glittering peacock, was sheltered from observation.