Ida felt a strange relief to her spirits, despite the absolute blackness of her domestic horizon, when the carriage drove away from Wimperfield. She had left the house very seldom of late, feeling that duty chained her to the joyless scene of home; and there was an infinite relief in turning her back upon that stately white building in which was embodied all the misery of her blighted life. No charnel-house could be fuller of ghastly, unspeakable horrors than Wimperfield had become to her since that long, never-to-be-forgotten night when she had listened to her husband’s ravings, and when all the loathsome objects his distracted fancy had conjured into being, and his never-resting tongue had described, had been only a little less real to her mind than they had been to his. Could she ever again know peace and rest in those rooms; ever tread those corridors without shuddering and dread, ever know happiness again in all the days of her life? She leaned back in the carriage as they drove along the avenue, and rested with half-closed eyes, her soul heavy within her, her body weighed down by the soreness and weariness of her mind. If life could but end now! She felt that she could be of no more use in the world. She could do nothing to help her wretched husband. He had chosen to go his own way to destruction, and he was too near the edge of the pit now to be snatched back by any friendly hand. She felt that his fate had passed beyond the regions of hope. God might pity the self-destroyer, and deal lightly with him at the great audit; but on this earth there was no hope of cure. Brian Wendover was going down to the pit.

Bessie sat by Ida’s side tenderly watching her worn white face, while Lady Palliser was entirely absorbed by the delight of administering fussily to her boy, who was well enough to laugh her shawls and comforters and motherly precautions to scorn, and to jump about in the carriage, as at each break in the wood some new object of interest caught his eye — a rabbit, a squirrel, a hawk high up in the blue, invisible to any gaze less eager than his own. He was in wild spirits at being out of doors again, a restless eager soul, not to be restrained by any medical ordinances or maternal anxieties.

They went for a long drive, the horses, very fresh after the little exercise of the last month, devouring the ground under them — the summer breeze brisk and inspiring — the country beautiful beyond measure — an ever-varying landscape of hill and wood and valley, green pastures and golden grain.

Bessie chatted gaily in her desire to distract Ida’s mind, and the boy’s vivacity never flagged; but Ida sat silent, feeling the blessedness of this brief respite from the horror of home, but quite unable to talk of indifferent subjects. She was haunted by the image of her husband as she had seen him that morning — his ashen countenance, the perpetual movement of his eyes, those nervous attenuated hands, almost transparent in their bloodlessness, for ever pushing aside the formless horrors that crowded round him — pictures painted on the empty air, pictures for ever changing, yet hideously real to that disorganised brain pictures that spoke and gibbered at him, shadows with which he carried on conversations.

With this awful image fresh in her mind, Ida could not even pretend to be cheerful, or interested in common things.

‘Don’t be unhappy about me, dear,’ she said once when Bessie squeezed her hand, and looked at her with tender anxiety; ‘I must bear my burden. Nobody can help me.’

‘Except God,’ whispered the Vicar’s faithful wife. ‘He lightens all burdens, in His good time.’

On the homeward road they wound near the base of Blackman’s Hanger, and at this point Vernon got up and ordered the coachman to drive as near as he could to the old gamekeeper’s cottage.

‘We can walk the rest of the way,’ said the boy.

‘Walk!’ shrieked Lady Palliser. ‘Oh, Vernie, what are you dreaming about? Mr. Fosbroke never said you might walk.’

‘Very likely not,’ retorted the boy; ‘but you don’t suppose I’m going to ask old Fosbroke’s leave before I use my legs. Look here, mother dear, I’m as well as ever I was, and I’m not going to be mollicoddled any more.’

‘But Vernie —’

‘I am not going to be mollicoddled any more, and I’m going to see old Jack.’

‘Nonsense, Vernie.’

‘He came to see me, and I’m going to see him,’ said Vernon, resolutely. ‘Remember what your favourite author, the Countess of Seven Stars, says about the necessity of returning a call —“and if the person calling happen to be your inferior in social status, the obligation to return the visit within a reasonable time will be so much the stronger.” There, mother; there are the very words of your “Crême de la Crême” for you.’

‘But, Vernon, the countess would never have imagined such a person as a Cheap Jack calling upon anyone for whom her book was intended.’

‘The book was intended for a parcel of stuck-up cads,’ said Vernon. ‘Get on, Jackson.’

This to the coachman, who was driving slowly, perfectly conscious of the squabble going on behind him, and anticipating the reversal of Sir Vernon’s order. But Lady Palliser said nothing, so Jackson quickened his pace a little, and drove along the rough winding road which skirted the base of the hill.

Directly he drew up his horses Vernon leapt out, and the three women followed him. After all, the mother inwardly argued, it were a pity to thwart her darling. He was in such high spirits, and seemed so thoroughly himself again. His very wilfulness was delightful, for it told of renewed vigour.

They all climbed the hill together, by a cork-screw track which was not too distressing. The atmosphere was cool and fresh at this altitude, the odour of the pines ambrosial.

‘I suppose we had better wait a little way off, Vernie,’ said Ida, when they were within a dozen yards of the hut. ‘Your friend is so very uncivil to ladies.’

‘Yes, you’d better rest yourselves on that fir tree,’ answered Vernon, pointing to prostrate giant of the grove which had been Lilely felled,’ while I run on and see him.’

They obeyed, but in less than five minutes Vernon came back.

‘Jack is out, but his house is open,’ he said, eagerly, ‘and I want you all to come and see it. I want you to see the house that my Jack built.’

‘But would it be right to go into his cottage when he is away?’ asked Ida.

‘Of course it would,’ cried her brother, dancing along before them. ‘You must come — there’s nothing to be ashamed of, I can tell you. Mother will see that my Jack isn’t a vulgar person, that he can read and write, and has the ways of a gentleman.’

‘I should certainly like to see what kind of person my son associates with,’ said Lady Palliser, who, in common with the non-studious class of mankind, was a keen inquirer into the details of daily life.

She liked to know where her acquaintance had their gowns made, and what wages they gave their cooks, and to be the first to hear of matrimonial engagements and dangerous illnesses.

The cottage door stood wide open, and as there was ............