CHAPTER XXXVIII.

The journey down to Herondale cannot be described:  whenever Ida thought of it in the after years, she felt herself trembling and quivering with the memory of it.  Until she had sat in the carriage, and the train had started and she realised that she was indeed going home—­home!—­she did not know what it had cost her to leave Herondale, how much she had suffered at Laburnum Villa, how deep the iron of dependence had entered her soul.  She was all of a quiver with delight, with profound gratitude to the Providence which was restoring her to the old house, the wide moors, the brawling streams which she knew now were dearer to her than life itself.

Mr. Wordley understood, and was full of sympathy with her mood.  He bought newspapers and magazines, and he let her alone and pretended to read; but every now and then she met his smiling glance, and knew by his nod of the head that he was rejoicing with her.

He had wired for a carriage and pair to meet them at Bryndermere, and Ida leant back and tried to be patient, then to look unconcerned and calm and composed; but she uttered a little cry and nearly broke down when the carriage stopped at the familiar gate, and Jessie, who was standing there, with her hair blown wild by the wind, forgot the inequalities of their positions, and catching her beloved young mistress to her bosom crooned and sobbed over her.

Jason stood just behind, balancing himself first on one foot, and then on the other, in his efforts to get a glimpse of Ida, and she stretched out her arm over Jessee’s shoulder and shook the honest hand which had grown hard and horny in her service.  Jessie almost carried her mistress into the hall, where a huge fire was burning and threw a red and cheerful glow over the fading gilding and grey-toned hangings.

“Oh, miss, how thin you be!” she said at last, as, with clasped hands, she surveyed Ida from top to toe anxiously and greedily.  “Wherever have you been to look like that?  But never mind, Miss Ida; you’re back, and that’s everything!  And we’ll very soon get some flesh on your bones and drive the sad look out of thee eyes.”  In moments of emotion and excitement Jessie forgot the schooling Ida had given her, and lapsed into semi-Westmoreland.  “You’ve missed the moorland air, dearie, and the cream and the milk—­I’ve ’eard it’s all chalk and water in London—­and I suppose there wasn’t room to ride in them crowded streets; and the food, too, I’m told it ain’t fit for ordinary humans, leave alone a dainty maid like my sweet mistress.”

“Yes, you shall fatten me to your heart’s desire, Jessie,” said Ida.  “I suppose I don’t look of much account; I’ve been ill.  But I shall soon get well.  I felt, as we drove along the moor, with the wind blowing on my cheek, as if I had not breathed since the hour I left.  And now tell me everything—­all—­at once!  Rupert?  There’s no need to ask