There is something solemn and awe-inspiring in perfect happiness.
How many times in the day did Ida pull up Rupert and gaze into the
distance with vacant, unseeing eyes, pause in the middle of some common
task, look up from the book she was trying to read, to ask herself
whether she was indeed the same girl who had lived her lonely life at
Herondale, or whether she had changed places with some other
personality, with some girl singularly blessed amongst women.
Jessie and Jason, even the bovine William, who was reputed the
stupidest man in the dale, noticed the change in her, noticed the touch
of colour that was so quick to mount to the ivory cheek, the novel
brightness and tenderness in the deep grey eyes, the new note, the low,
sweet tone of happiness in the clear voice. Her father only remained
unobservant of the subtle change, but he was like a mole burrowing
amongst his book and gloating secretly over the box which he concealed
at the approach of footsteps, the opening of a door, and the sound of a
voice in a distant part of the house.
But though the servants remarked the change in their beloved mistress,
they did not guess at its cause; for, by chance rather than design,
none of them had seen Ida and Stafford together.
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