Within a few days she received invitations from the Bannerdales and
Vaynes and the other county families, who were evidently possessed by
the kind determination that she should become one of them. The dinner
at Bannerdale Grange was quite _en famille_; she was made a great deal
of; and if she had given them the least encouragement they would
actually have petted her; but though Ida had lost something of her old
pride and _hauteur_, caused by her isolation, she was still somewhat
reserved, and, grateful as she was for their overtures of affection,
she could not respond as fully as she would have liked. It was the same
with the Vaynes and Avorys; they were all more than kind to her, and
she longed to receive their attention with open arms; but she could
not: the fact was, her wounded heart was so tender that it shrank even
from the gentlest touch.
"The girl is all right," remarked Lord Bannerdale. "She has been in
great trouble and it has hurt her very badly; and though she seems
rather cold and reserved, she is more sensitive than most women: you
must give her time."
Ida had resolved that though she could not altogether forget the great
sorrow of her life, she would not brood over it. She knew that for her
complaint there was nothing worse than idleness; and she sought
employment for her mind and body with an eagerness that sometimes
became almost feverish. When she was not visiting or receiving visits
from, what might be called her new, friends, she was busy about the
farm and the estate, and took long rides on Rupert accompanied as of
old by the dogs. Very soon, too, Mr. Hartley began at the restoration;
and Ida was deeply interested in the progress of the work. Then, again,
the hunting season commenced, and to the delight of Sir Robert Vayne,
the master, she appeared at the first meet: and, is it necessary to
say? was in at the death. She enjoyed that first run more than she had
enjoyed anything since the fatal morning she had lost both sweetheart
and father; and she was very nearly happy as she rode home with a
crushed hat and a habit splashed with mud.
A week or two afterwards, Lord Bannerdale gave a hunt breakfast, and
made a point of her being present; and she yielded though she would
have preferred to have joined the meet at the coverts. As she rode up,
Lord Bannerdale came down the steps to meet her; and by his side was a
tall, good-looking young fellow whom Ida rightly guessed, by his
likeness to his father, to be Lord Bannerdale's son. He had returned
from his travels on the preceding night, was in perfect health and
spirits, much tanned by the sun and rain, and seemed to possess his
full share of the amiability of his amiable family. He stood,
bare-headed, at Rupert's head and took Ida's hand to help her to
dismount, and not only walked with her to the house, but contrived to
sit beside her at the breakfast-table. His people had been talking to
him of Ida, he was quite prepared to be impressed, and that he was so
was evident before the meal had concluded. His mother paid particular
attention to Ida, and Lord Bannerdale regarded the young pair
approvingly.
Lord Edwin rode as straight as Ida herself; it was a magnificent
run--of course, "the best run of the season"--and Lord Edwin, securing
the brush, fastened it to her saddle. Those who saw the act--they were
not many, for the pace had been fast and hard--exchanged significant
glances. Lord Edwin was over at the Hall next day and displayed a keen
interest in the restoration, and bent for some time over the plans
which he had humbly begged Ida to show him. He was a modest young
fellow, with more intelligence and good sense than generally goes with
his age, and Ida liked him. It was inevitable that they should meet
almost every day; it was almost as inevitable that he should fall in
love with her; for she was not only the most beautiful girl in the
county, but there was an element of romance in her loneliness and her
fortunes which naturally appealed to him.
He went to his father one day and confided in him; but, though Lord and
Lady Bannerdale were more than pleased, they begged him not to be too
sanguine.
"Sanguine!" he exclaimed, colouring. "I live in a state of mortal fear
and dread; for though I love her more every time I see her, I never
leave her without feeling that my case is hopeless. There is something
about Ida--oh, of course I can't explain!--but I feel as if I could no
more speak to her of love than I could--could jump over this house."
"And yet she is so gentle and friendly," said Lady Bannerdale to
encourage him.
The young fellow, wise in his generation, shook his head.
"That's just it, mother," he said, gravely. "She treats me as if I were
a brother, quite a young brother; and I know that if I were to speak to
her, to let her know how much I love her, it would mean the end of
everything. I should never be able to see her again--and I could not
stand that; for I am only happy when I am with her--and then I am
miserable with the thought of having to leave her."
"You must be patient, my dear fellow," said Lord Bannerdale. "Ida Heron
is a girl in a million, and she is worth waiting for."
"Oh, I'll wait," said Lord Edwin; "but sometimes I feel that all the
waiting in the world won't win her," he added, with a sigh.
One day--it was in the Christmas week which Ida had been prevailed upon
to spend with the Bannerdales--Lord Bannerdale came in at luncheon-time
with some news.
"I hear the Villa is to be occupied at Christmas," he said. "Mr.
Falconer and his daughter are coming down to-day."
"Is there to be a house-party?" said Lady Bannerdale. "But I suppose
not. No, there could not be, under the circumstances. Poor girl! Sir
Stephen's death--I never can remember that he was Lord Highcliffe!
--must have been a great grief and shock to her. She and her
father will naturally wish to be quiet; but I suppose we ought to call.
You have never seen her, I think, Ida?"
"No," said Ida, in the impassive, reticent way in which she always
spoke and looked when on guard.
"An extremely beautiful woman," said Lady Bannerdale; "but she always
struck me as being a remarkably cold one; though, of course, it may
have only been manner. The present Lord Highcliffe, Sir Stephen's son,
has been away some time now. I suppose he will come back soon, and they
will be married. They will make a very handsome couple. You would like
him, Edwin. I took a great fancy to him on the few occasions I met him;
and I felt deeply sorry for his misfortunes. But there will be no lack
of money when he and Miss Falconer are married, for her father is
immensely rich, I believe. It would be very nice for all of us if Lord
Highcliffe settled at the Villa; and I have an idea that Mr. Falconer
has bought it for them."
Ida's heart sank, and she seized the first opportunity of getting to
her own room. What hope of forgetfulness could there be for her, what
chance of happiness if Stafford came back to the Villa to live, if she
should be in hourly dread of meeting him? The thought haunted her
though all the quiet Christmas festivities at the Grange; and she was
glad to get back to the Hall, and away from the eyes which watched her,
though they watched her with a friendly and affectionate regard.
In her daily rides she avoided the opening on the lake side from which
the Villa was visible; and she would sometimes make a long _detour_
rather than go near the spot. On one occasion, when returning from
Bryndermere, instead of crossing by the ferry she rode round by the
other side of the lake, keeping well away from the Villa, lest she
should meet anyone belonging to it. She had reached the top of the hill
below which wound the road leading to the Hall, and after pausing to
look at the magnificent view, was riding across a field, one of the
outlying fields of her estate, when she saw a lady riding through a
gate at the lower end. The blood rushed to her face and her heart
seemed to stand still for a moment, for she saw that it was Maude
Falconer; then her face grew pale and a wave of bitterness, grew over
her, for she recognised the horse on which Maude was riding: it was
Stafford's Adonis. Her first impulse was to turn aside and leave the
field; but her pride revolted, and she kept her course, looking
straight before her and trying not to see the graceful figure below
her.
At sight of her, the blood had flown to Maude's face also, and she
tried to check her horse; but Adonis, at any time rather more than she
could well manage, was fresh and too eager to join the other horse, and
he carried her up the field against her will. The two met almost face
to face, the horses exchanging friendly neighs. For a moment, while one
could count twenty, the two rivals sat and looked at each other. Half
unconsciously, Ida noticed the pallor and the worn look of the
beautiful face, the wistful peevishness of the delicately cut lip; then
suddenly Maude's face flushed, her eyes grew hard and scornful, and
with something like a sneer she said, in a metallic tone:
"I beg your pardon, but are you aware that you are trespassing?"
A saint would have turned on such provocation; and Ida, being no saint,
felt that her face was as crimson as the other girl's, and grew as hot
of heart as of face. She set her lips tightly and tried to remain
silent: surely it would be better, in every way better, to ride on
without a word. But it was more than she could do: and she drew herself
up and her eyes flashed back the challenge, as she said in a low but
distinct voice:
"Pardon me, but you are mistaken. The land on which I am riding belongs
to me." Maude grew pale again, and her lips set closely until the line
of red almost disappeared.
"Is this not, then, part of the Villa estate?" she asked.
"No; it is part of the Herondale estate," replied Ida, rather more
gently: for was it not horrible that she should be engaged in
altercation with Stafford's future wife?
"Then I presume I have the honour of speaking to Miss Heron," said
Maude, with an indefinable air, combining contempt and defiance, which
brought the colour to Ida's face again.
"My name is Ida Heron; yes," she said.
"Then, if you are making no mistake, it is I who am trespassing," said
Maude, "and it is I who must apologise. Pray consider that I do so most
fully, Miss Heron."
"No apology is necessary," said Ida, still more gently. "You are quite
welcome to ride over this or any part of Herondale."
Maude gave a little scornful laugh.
"Thanks, it's very good of you!" she said, haughtily, and with that
covert offensiveness of which, alas! a woman alone is capable. "I do
not think I shall have any desire to avail myself of your kind
permission; the public roads and the land belonging to my father's
house will, I think, prove quite sufficient for me. I am the daughter
of Mr. Falconer, of the Villa at Brae Wood."
Ida inclined her head slightly by way of acknowledgment and adieu, and
without another word rode on towards the gate at the bottom of the
field which opened on to the road. Adonis who had been delighted to
meet his old friend, promptly followed; and, though Maude Falconer
tried her hardest to check him and turn him, he, inwardly laughing at
her efforts, trotted cheerfully beside Rupert, and continued their
conversation. Maude was half mad with mortification, and, quite unable
to leave Ida's hated side, she raised her whip and struck Adonis across
the face. The horse, who had never received such a blow before in his
life, stopped dead short, falling back almost on to his haunches, then
reared straight up and in a moment of temper tried to throw her off;
indeed, she must have fallen but Ida, always cool at such moments,
swept sideways, caught Adonis's bridle and brought him on all fours.
Maude was instantly jerked forward on to the horse's neck in a
humiliating fashion, but recovering her seat, sat trembling with
passion.
It was impossible not to pity her, and Ida in her gentlest and quietest
of voices, said: "I will wait here, will not go through the gate until
your groom comes up. Your horse will be quite quiet then. If I might
venture to say so, I think it would be wise not to strike him across
the head; very few horses can stand it; and this one is high-bred and
exceptionally spirited--"
She was stopped by Maude's scornful laugh.
"Really, I ought to feel very much obliged to you, Miss Heron!" she
said; "and my sense of obligation is almost as great as my amazement at
your frankness--and assurance! May I ask you to be good enough to
release my horse's reins?"
Ida's hand fell from the reins, and her face grew crimson; but before
she could have retorted, even if she had intended doing so, Maude
struck the horse again; it turned and dashed across the field, kicking
and plunging violently, with Maude swaying perilously in the saddle.
Ida waited until the groom--it was Pottinger--had gained his mistress's
side and got hold of the horse; then, with no thought of bravado but
simply with the desire to get away from the spot, she put Rupert at the
gate and leapt into the road.