It was a brilliant June morning rather more than a year after the events mentioned in the last chapter.
The air was full of the song of birds and the hum of bees, and of another sound to which Sydney Lisle was listening, as she stood upon the steps of the Castle, shading eyes that danced joyfully from the dazzling sunshine, and listening to the pealing of the bells.
They were plain enough from Lislehurst Church across the Park, but she could distinguish, mingling with these, the more distant peal from Loam, and even, she thought, Marston’s little tinkling duet from its two cracked bells, which were being pulled with a goodwill that went far to atone for their lack of music.
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The glory of “leafy June,” that queen of months, was upon the tall trees of the Park, among which presently the girl went wandering. How wonderful a world it was to-day! She felt as though she wanted to drink in the beauty around her.
The sunshine came flickering through the trees, making a chequer of light and shade upon the grassy path before her; in front the softly dappled deer were feeding peacefully, undisturbed by her approach.
“Pang—pang—pang—pang—pang—pang—pang—pang!” went the bells, and Sydney smiled in sympathy with that wonderful abandonment of joy which only bells can give.
The girl made a charming picture as she stood there on the soft grass, with the mighty trees she loved so well towering in their grandeur overhead, and the sunshine flickering through the leaves upon her white gown and sweet face.
She was good to look upon indeed in her dainty gown, with a great bunch of yellow roses at her belt, and that flush upon her cheek and sun of gladness in her eyes. She might have stood for an embodiment of the sweet young summer which was making the world good to dwell in.
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So at least thought a young man, who, catching through the trees a glimpse of her white dress, had left the road and cut across the Park toward her. As he came near his eyes were fixed upon her earnest face, raised to the glory of sight and sound above. She did not hear his footsteps till he was quite close to her; then she sprang to meet him with a low cry of delight.
“Oh, Hugh! have you heard?”
“Yes, I heard at Donisbro’ and came straight.”
Something new in his voice brought a sudden flush to the delicately tinted face. Her eyes fell before his eager ones.
“Come into the gardens,” she said, turning, and the two went wandering together in a strange silence over the cool turf of the bowling green where King Charles I. had once played at his favourite game with a loyal Lisle of old, a Sydney too.
The balmy, fragrant air was filled with the clang of bells; beyond the Park they were beginning to cut hay in the long meadows sloping upwards towards the grey-green downs. A great bush, covered with the little yellow roses Sydney wore, smiled up at the two who stood before it.
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“Pang—pang-pang-pang—pang—pang-pang-pang!” went the bells.
“They ring with goodwill,” Hugh said, with a smile.
“They are very glad,” said Sydney, “and oh, Hugh, I wonder whether anybody on the whole estate is more glad than I am!”
And then Hugh turned and caught her hands and said, with an odd break in his voice, “Syd, are you really?”
She looked straight up at him, and he knew that she had spoken truth.