The house, even after all its improvements, had a humble and homely aspect; walls roughly plastered, small lattice windows, and that steep slant of the roof, which Vansittart could have touched with his hand. The porch was a square enclosure, with a sloping thatch, and two little windows, right and left. An old woman, in a blue stuff gown and white cap and apron, opened the door, and even as it opened Vansittart heard again that ripple of silver-clear laughter which he had heard on the hilltop in the snowy night, nearly ten days ago.
Ten days. Only ten! Until ten days ago he had lived in happy ignorance that there was such a woman as Eve Marchant in the world. It seemed to him now as strange not to have known of her as it would be not to know of her namesake—the universal mother.
The same sweet laughter, not loud or boisterous, but soft and clear! Her laugh! He would have known it amidst a chorus of laughing girls.
Miss Marchant was at home, the old woman told him, and thereupon led him through a small, dark room—the original cottage parlour—through another room, faintly lit by a low fire, into a third and much larger room, which was bright with fire and lamp light.
Here the whole Marchant family, except the Colonel, were assembled at afternoon tea, which in this establishment had come to be the most enjoyable meal of the day.
Happily Vansittart had lunched lightly in the woods with the shooters, so was hungry enough to find the odour of toasting bread rather a comfortable addition to the atmosphere; or, at any rate, he was in a humour to be pleased with everything, even the sprawling attitude of a tall overgrown girl in a yellow cotton pinafore, sitting on the hearthrug, and making toast, watched and assisted by a smaller sister.
The three grown-up Miss Marchants sat at the table, two of them with their elbows on the board, where a large homemade cake—in north-country phraseology, a plum-loaf—a glass dish of marmalade and another of jam, and a pile of thick bread and butter, testified to the serious purpose of the meal.
Eve, the tea-maker and mistress of the feast, rose as Mr. Vansittart was announced, and came forward two or three steps to greet him, half in firelight, half in lamplight, brilliant and full of colour as an early Italian picture. Her gown was bright red merino, which set off the fairness of her complexion, and the pale gold in her brown hair; such a cheap gown, if he had only known, bought at one of the sales for half its value, timid beauty being afraid of the strong colour.
The other two girls were in somewhat tawdry attire, skirts of one colour, bodices of another; but they were fond of colour at the Homestead, and girls with scanty purses cannot bend to the iron rule of fashion.
To Vansittart’s admiring eyes, Eve’s red gown was the most exquisite and artistic of garments. He who was generally so much at his ease in all kinds of company found himself hesitating a little as he said that he had come to ask them if they had quite recovered from the fatigue of the dance; and, if so, how it was they had not been on the ice in Redwold Park.
“But perhaps you are tired of skating.”
“Tired? Why, we all adore it,” cried Eve. “But we have been dreadfully busy, making our winter gowns.”
The second week in January seemed to Mr. Vansittart a late date at which to set about the making of winter raiment. He did not know that for many young women with slender purses the January and July sales are the only periods for the purchase of drapery. Twice a year the Marchant girls treated themselves to third-class tickets from Haslemere to Waterloo, and spent a long day going from shop to shop to secure the utmost value for their poor little stock of cash.
“Yes; it’s really dreadful to lose a week of this delicious hard frost, ain’t it?” exclaimed Sophy, much readier of speech this evening than her elder sister.
“Run to the kitchen and get me another teapot, Peggy,” whispered Eve; whereupon the youngest girl started up from the rug and bounded off on her errand.
“Just as we were all improving in our skating,” said Jenny. “We had conquered the outside edge, and Sophy and I were beginning to grasp the right idea of the Dutch roll, and were even aspiring to the grape vine.”
“And then the hockey,” interjected Sophy; “the hockey was too delightful.”
Again the fair head bent itself towards the hearthrug. There was another whisper, and the elder girl bounced up and ran off.
“She has gone for a cup and saucer, and I am going to give you some fresh tea,” said Eve, smiling at the visitor as he sat in the Colonel’s chair, in that corner of the room which bore no traces of girlish litter. “I hope you don’t mind our waiting upon ourselves. We have only our old Yorkshire Nancy, and a little parlourmaid; and as it is the little maid’s afternoon out, here we are, five intelligent young people, ready to help each other.”
“I cannot conceive a more delightful spectacle. But why make fresh tea, Miss Marchant? I am sure there is some of your last brew which would do capitally for me.”
“If I did not know you are saying that for kindness, I might think you one of those unsympathetic people who don’t care for tea.”
“Do tea and sympathy go together?”
“I
