for her. Sydney would guide her pony in case of need, or show her where she might stay behind by herself, if the others should exhibit a passion for impracticable places. She knew that Margaret would enjoy the day all the more for her being there; and so would Mr. Hope, as he had amply proved. Maria was really delighted to be going, and she and the children rejoiced together.
This great pleasure involved some minor enjoyments too, in the way of preparation. On Sunday Mr. Hope told her, that he believed the pony was now fully trained; but he should like that she should try it, especially as she had been long out of the habit of riding. She must take a ride with him on Monday and Tuesday afternoons, for practice. The Monday’s ride was charming; through Verdon woods, and home over the heath from Crossley End. The circuit, which was to have been three miles, had extended to ten. She must be moderate, she said to herself, the next day, and not let Mr. Hope spend so much of his time upon her; and besides, the pony had to be sent over to Dingleford in the evening, after she had done with it, to be in readiness for her on Wednesday morning.
The ride on Tuesday was happily accomplished, as that of Monday: but it was much shorter. Mr. Hope agreed that it should be short, as he had a patient to visit on the Dingleford road, so near the hamlet that he might as well take the pony there himself. It would trot along beside his horse. Sydney saved him part of the charge. Sydney would at all times walk back any distance for the sake of a ride out, on whatever kind of saddle, or almost any kind of quadruped. He was in waiting at the farrier’s gate, when Miss Young returned from her ride; and having assisted her into the house, he threw himself upon her pony, and rode three miles and a half on the Dingleford road before he would dismount, and deliver his bridle into Mr. Hope’s hand. Tea was over, and the tea-things removed, before he appeared at home, heated and delighted with his expedition. He ran to the dairy for a basin of milk, and declared that his being hot and tired did not matter in the least, as he had no lessons to do—the next day being a holiday.
It was about two hours after this, when Hester and Margaret were singing to Sophia’s playing, that Mr. Grey put his head in at the door, and beckoned Mrs. Grey out of the room. She remained absent a considerable time; and when she returned, the singers were in the middle of another duet. She wandered restlessly about the room till the piece was finished, and then made a sign to Sophia to follow her into the storeroom, the double door of which the sisters could hear carefully closed. They were too much accustomed to the appearance of mystery among the ladies of the Grey family, to be surprised at any number of secret conferences which might take place in the course of the day. But evening was not the usual time for these. The family practice was to transact all private consultations in the morning, and to assemble round the work-table or piano after tea. The sisters made no remark to each other on the present occasion, but continued their singing, each supposing that the store-room conference related to some preparation for the next day’s excursion.
It was too dark to distinguish anything in the room before their hostess re-entered it. Margaret was playing quadrilles; Hester was standing at the window, watching the shadows which the risen moon was flinging across the field, and the lighting up of Mrs. Enderby’s parlour behind the blinds; and Sydney was teasing his twin sisters with rough play on the sofa, when Mrs. Grey returned.
“You are all in the dark,” said she, in a particularly grave tone. “Why, did you not ring for lights, my dears?” and she rang immediately. “Be quiet, children! I will not have you make so much noise.”
The little girls seemed to wish to obey; but their brother still forced them to giggle; and their struggling entreaties were heard—“Now don’t, Sydney; now pray, Sydney, don’t!”
“Mary and Fanny, go to bed,” said their mother, decidedly, when lights were brought. “Sydney, bid your cousins good-night, and then come with me; I want to ask you a question.”
“Good-night already, mother! Why, it is not time yet this half-hour.”
“It is enough that I choose you to go to bed. Wish your cousins good-night, and come with me.”
Mrs. Grey led the way once more into the store-room, followed, rather sulkily, by Sydney.
“What can all this be about?” whispered Hester to Margaret. “There is always something going on which we are not to know.”
“Some affair of fruit, or wine, or bonbons, perhaps, which are all the better for making their appearance unexpectedly.”
At this moment Sophia and her mother entered by opposite doors. Sophia’s eyes were red; and there was every promise in her face that the slightest word spoken to her would again open the sluices of her tears. Mrs. Grey’s countenance was to the last degree dismal: but she talked—talked industriously, of everything she could think of. This was the broadest possible hint to the sisters not to inquire what was the matter; and they therefore went on sewing and conversing very diligently till they thought they might relieve Mrs. Grey by offering to retire. They hesitated only because Mr. Grey had not come in; and he so regularly appeared at ten o’clock, that they had never yet retired without having enjoyed half an hour’s chat with him.
“Sophia, my dear,” said her mother, “are the night candles there? Light your cousins’ candles.—I am sure they are wishing to go; and it is getting late. You will not see Mr. Grey to-night, my dears. He has been sent for to a distance.”
At this moment, the scrambling of a horse’s feet was heard on the gravel before the front door. Sophia looked at her mother, and each lighted a candle precipitately, and thrust it into a hand of each cousin.
“There, go, my dears,” said Mrs. Grey. “Never mind stopping for Mr. Grey. I will deliver your good-night to him. You will have to be rather early in the morning, you know. Good-night, good-night.”
Thus Hester and Margaret were hurried up-stairs, while the front door was in the act of being unbarred for Mr. Grey’s entrance. Morris was despatched after them, with equal speed, by Mrs. Grey’s orders, and she reached their chamber-door at the same moment that they did.
Hester set down her candle, bade Morris shut the door, and threw herself into an armchair with wonderful decision of manner, declaring that she had never been so treated;—to be amused and sent to bed like a baby, in a house where she was a guest!
“I am afraid something is the matter,” said Margaret.
“What then? they might have told us so, and said plainly that they had rather be alone.”
“People must choose their own ways of managing their own affairs, you know: and what those ways are cannot matter to us, as long as we are not offended at them.”
“Do you take your own way of viewing their behaviour, then, and leave me mine,” said Hester hastily.
Morris feared there was something amiss; and she believed Alice knew what it was: but she had not told either cook or housemaid a syllable about it. By Morris’s account, Alice had been playing the mysterious in the kitchen as her mistress had in the parlour. Mr. Grey had been suddenly sent for, and had saddled his horse himself, as his people were all gone, and there was no one on the premises to do it for him. A wine-glass had also been called for, for Miss Sophia, whose weeping had been overheard. Master Sydney had gone to his room very cross, complaining of his mother’s having questioned him overmuch about his ride, and then sent him to bed half an hour before his usual time.
A deadly fear seized upon Margaret’s heart, when she heard of Sydney’s complaint of being overmuch questioned about his ride—a deadly fear for Hester. If her suspicion should prove true, it was out of pure consideration that they had been “amused and sent to bed like babies.” A glance at Hester showed that the same apprehension had crossed her
