At Love's Cost

Ida walked home through the rain very thoughtfully: but not sadly; for

though it was still pelting in the uncompromising lake fashion, she was

half conscious of a strange lightness of the heart, a strange

brightness in herself, and even in the rain-swept view, which vaguely

surprised and puzzled her. The feeling was not vivid enough to be

happiness, but it was the nearest thing to it.

And without realising it, she thought, all the way home, of Stafford

Orme. Her life had been so secluded, so solitary and friendless, that

he had come into it as a sudden and unexpected flash of sunlight in a

drear November day. It seemed to her extraordinary that she should have

met him so often, still more extraordinary the offer he had made that

morning. She asked herself, as she went with quick, light step along

the hills, why he had done it; why he, who was rich and had so many

friends--no doubt the Villa would be full of them--should find any

pleasure in learning to herd cattle and count sheep, to ride about the

dale with only a young girl for company.

If anyone had whispered, "It is because he prefers that young girl's

society to any other's; it is because he wants to be with you, not from

any desire to learn farming," she would have been more than surprised,

would have received this offer of a solution of the mystery with a

smile of incredulity; for there had been no candid friend to tell her

that she possessed the fatal gift of beauty; that she was one of those

upon whom the eyes of man cannot look without a stirring of the heart,

and a quickening of the pulse. Vanity is a strong plant, and it

flourishes in every soil; but it had found no root in Ida's nature. She

was too absorbed in the round of her daily tasks, in the care of her

father and her efforts to keep the great place from going to rack and

ruin, to think of herself; and if her glass had ever whispered that she

was one of the loveliest of the daughters of Eve, she had turned a deaf

ear to it.

No; she assured herself that it was just a whim of Mr. Orme's, a

passing fancy and caprice which would soon be satisfied, and that he

would tire of it after a few days, perhaps hours. Of course, she was

wrong to humour the whim; but it had been hard to refuse him, hard to

seem churlish and obstinate after he had been so kind on the night her

father had frightened her by his sleep-walking; and it had been still

harder because she had been conscious of a certain pleasure in the

thought that she should see him again.