And then they all three went under the yew-tree arch, into the loveliest of orchards—an orchard of seven or eight acres—an orchard that had been growing a century and a half—pears, plums, cherries, apples; here and there a walnut tree towering above the rest; here and there a grey old medlar; a pool in a corner overshadowed by two rugged old quinces; grass so soft, and deep, and mossy; primroses, daffodils; pale purple crocuses; the whole bounded by a sloping bank on which the ferns were just unfolding their snaky, grey coils, and revealing young leaves of tenderest green, under a straggling hedge of hawthorn, honeysuckle, and eglantine.
Here among the old gnarled trunks, and on the hillocky grass Mr. Treverton and the two young ladies walked for about half an hour, enjoying the beauty and freshness of the place, in this sweetest period of the balmy spring day. Celia talked much, and John Treverton talked a little, but Miss Malcolm was for the most part silent. And yet John did not think her dull or stupid. It was enough for him to look at that delicate, yet firmly-modelled profile, the thoughtful brow, grave lips, and calm dark eyes, to know that neither intellect nor goodness was wanting in her whom his kinsman had designed for his wife.
“Poor old man!” he thought, “he meant to secure my happiness without jeopardising hers. If he could have known—if he could have known!”
They returned to the garden by a different arch; they visited the hothouses, where the rose-hued azaleas and camellias made pyramids of vivid colour; they glanced at the kitchen garden with its asparagus beds and narrow box-edged borders, its all-pervading odour of sweet herbs and wallflowers.
“I am positively expiring for want of a cup of tea,” cried Celia. “Didn’t you hear the church clock strike five, Laura?”
John remembered the six o’clock dinner at The Laurels.
“I really think I must deny myself that cup of tea,” he said. “The Sampsons dine at six.”
“What of that?” exclaimed Celia, who never would let a man out of her clutches till stern necessity snatched him from her. “It is not above ten minute’s walk from here to The Laurels.”
“What an excellent walker you must be, Miss Clare. Well, I’ll hazard everything for that cup of tea.”
They went into a pretty room, opening out of the garden, a room with two long windows wreathed round with passionflower and starry white clematis—the clematis montana, which flowers in spring. It was not large enough for a library, so it was called the book-room, and was lined from floor to ceiling with books—a great many of which had been collected by Laura. It was quite a lady’s collection. There were all the modern poets, from Scott and Byron downwards, a good many French and German books—Macaulay, De Quincey, Lamartine, Victor Hugo—a good deal of history and belles-lettres, but no politics, no science, no travels, The room was the essence of snugness—flowers on mantelpiece and tables, basket-work easy chairs, cushions adorned with crewelwork, delightful little tables (after Chippendale), and on one of the tables a scarlet Japanese tea-tray, with the quaintest of old silver teapots, and cups and saucers in willow pattern Nankin ware. Laura poured out the tea, while Celia began to devour hot buttered cake, the very look of which suggested dyspepsia; but to some weak minds earth has no more overpowering temptation on a warm spring afternoon than hot-buttered cake and strong tea with plenty of cream in it.
John Treverton sat in one of the low basket arm chairs—such chairs as they make in Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire—and drank tea as if it were the elixir of life. He had a strange feeling as he sat in that chair by the open window, looking across the beds of tulips, above which the bees were humming noisily—a feeling as if his life were only just beginning; as if he were a child in his cradle, dimly conscious of the dawning of existence; no burdens on mind or conscience; no tie or encumbrance; no engagement of honour or faith; a dead blank behind him; and before him life, happiness, the glory and freshness of earth, love, home, all things which fate reserves for the man born to good luck.
This dream or fancy of his was so pleasant that he let it stay with him while he drank three cups of tea, and while Celia rattled on about Hazlehurst and its inhabitants, giving him what she called a social map of the country, which might be useful for his guidance during the week he proposed to spend there. He only roused himself when the church clock chimed the three-quarters, and then he pulled himself out of the basket chair with a jerk, put down his cup and saucer, and wished Laura goodbye.
“I shall have to do the distance in ten minutes, Miss Clare,” he said, as he shook hands with that vivacious young lady.
“I’m afraid I ought to have said ten minutes for a bicycle,” replied Celia, “but the Sampsons won’t mind waiting dinner for you, and I don’t suppose the delay will hurt their dinner.”
“It will be nearer for you through the orchard,” said Laura.
So John Treverton went through the orchard, at the end of which there was a gate that opened into a lane leading to the high road. It was the same lane which skirted the walled fruit garden, with the little door that John had seen mysteriously opened that winter night. The sight of the little wooden door made him curiously thoughtful.
“I’ll never believe that there was anything approaching guilt in that mystery,” he said to himself. “No, I have looked into those lovely eyes of hers, and I believe her incapable of an unworthy thought. Some poor relation, I daresay—a scamp whom she would have been ashamed of before the servants, so she received him secretly; doubtless, to help him with money.
“What an extraordinary girl you are, Laura,” said Celia, draining the teapot. “Why did you never tell
