She had been so absorbed in the duties which had so suddenly fallen
upon her young shoulders that there had been no time in which to feel
the want of companionship. There had always been something to think of,
something to do; her father demanded so much attention; the house, the
land, the farm--she had to look after them all; there had not been time
to think even of herself; and it had never occurred to her that she was
leading a life so different to that led by most girls. But to-night the
silence of the great house, large enough to hold fifty people, but
sheltering only five persons--her father and herself and the three
servants--weighed upon her.
That sense of loneliness had come upon her suddenly as she had watched
the young man's retreating figure. She could not help thinking of him
even when her mind was oppressed with anxiety on her father's account.
In a vague way she remembered how kind this stranger had been; how
quietly, and with what an air of protection, he had stood by her and
restrained her from crying out and alarming her father. As vaguely, she
remembered that in the moment of her terror she had clung to him, had
forgotten under the great strain that he was a stranger--and a man.
Even now she did not know his name, knew nothing of him except that he
was staying at The Woodman Inn.
Kind and considerate as he had been she thought of him with something
like resentment; it was as if he had stepped into her life, had
intruded upon its quiet uneventfulness. He had no right to be there, no
right, to have seen her father in that terrible condition, that death
in life. And she had behaved like a frightened servant-maid; had not
only clung to him--had she clung to him, or was it only fancy?--but had
left him without a word of thanks, had allowed him to wait there, and
then had waved her hand to him just as she had seen Jessie, the maid,
wave her hand to her "young man" after they had parted, and she was
going into the house.
She bit her lip softly and a faint flush rose to the clear pallor of
the lovely, girlish face reflected in the glass. Yes, she had behaved
just like a servant-maid, she who in her heart of hearts knew that she
prided herself upon her dignity and the good manners which should
belong to a Heron of Herondale. It was characteristic of her that while
she thought of his conduct and what she considered her bad behaviour,
she gave no thought to the fact that the stranger who had so "intruded"
was singularly handsome and possessed of that strange quality which at
once impresses women. Most girls would have remembered the fact, but
Ida was different to the general run of her sex. She had been brought
up in an out-of-the-way place in which the modern novel, the
fashionable pastime of flirtation, were not known; and her secluded
life in the lonely dale had deepened that sense of aloofness from the
world, that indifference to the sentiment which lurks in most girls'
bosoms. This tall, handsome man who had stepped into her life and
shared the secret of her father's strange affliction, weakness, was
nothing more to her than one of the other tourists whom she sometimes
chanced to see on her lonely rides and walks.