He tramped the narrow track between the thick growth of oak and fir, emerged from the copse, and struck out a path across some low-lying pastures to the lake, which lay in the lowest part of Redwold Park, and only five minutes’ walk from one of the lodges, where some of the skaters kept their skates. There were a good many skaters this fine bright afternoon—an afternoon in which there was no consciousness of cold, though the atmosphere was twelve degrees below freezing point, just such a calm, clear atmosphere as Vansittart had often enjoyed in the Upper Engadine. There were a good many people on the ice—the villagers at one end of the long irregular-shaped piece of water, the gentry at the other—a rustic bridge dividing the classes from the masses. About twenty girls were playing hockey, the three Champernownes conspicuous among the rest by their fine carriage and sober attire. Those girls had certainly mastered the art of dress, Vansittart admitted to himself. They wore black serge gowns, cut to perfection by a fashionable tailor, black cloth jackets, tight-fitting, severe, with narrow collar and cuffs of Astrakhan, at a time when Astrakhan was not everybody’s wear. Their hats were the neatest on the ice—black felt hats, with the least touch of scarlet in the loose knot of corded ribbon which was their only trimming. No wings, claws, or beaks; no anchors, arrows, crescents, or buckles of jet, gilt or steel; none of those tawdry accessories which sometimes convert a young lady’s headgear into a museum of curiosities. Long tan gloves, fresh and perfectly fitting, completed the toilet of the three sisters, who had early realized the effect that is made in any public assembly by three handsome girls dressed alike.
Jack Vansittart paced the bank, stopping now and then to watch the skating, but with no inclination to join the revellers. The walk along the side of the lake was a pleasant walk, in some parts open to the water, in other places screened by hazel and alder. Here and there in a bend of the lake there was a hillock, on which the skaters sat to take off or adjust their skates, and on which the spectators sometimes stood to watch the sport.
From this point of vantage Vansittart surveyed the scene, and as he did so became conscious of a man standing on the opposite side of the lake, also surveying the scene. A second glance assured him that the man was Sefton. He had only seen Sefton at the ball, but he could not be mistaken in that sharp, hooked nose, sallow complexion, and black beard. It was Sefton, lightly clad, as if prepared for skating, but holding himself aloof from the throng.
There was a fascination for Vansittart in this solitary spectator, and it was while watching him that he became aware of a new arrival. Sefton, whose hawk-like eyes had been looking up and down the lake, suddenly concentrated his attention on one spot at the end near the lodge, and as suddenly walked off in that direction. Vansittart imitated him on his side of the lake, and was speedily enlightened as to the cause of Sefton’s movements. As he neared the lodge gate he saw three young women approaching—three young women in blue gowns, widely different in shade.
Now, the Champernownes and his sister—who talked of chiffons for an hour at a stretch—had dinned into his brain the fact that blue was not worn that winter. The colour might be a beautiful colour in the abstract, the colour of sky and sea, of sapphires and forget-me-nots, of children’s eyes and running brooks, but it was a colour which no woman who respected herself would wear. It was “out,” and that monosyllable meant that it was anathema maranatha.
And behold here came the three girls in their new winter frocks, a blaze of blue; Sophy splendid in peacock cloth, trimmed with plush that almost matched; Jenny in uncompromising azure, the blue of Reckitt’s and the British laundress; Eve less startling in a dark Oxford cloth, very plainly made, with a little homemade toque of the same stuff.
The fact was that the fashionable drapers were almost giving away their blue stuffs that January, and the prudent Marchants had been able to get the best materials at a third of their value.
“And after all it isn’t the colour, but the style of a gown that makes it fashionable or otherwise,” Sophy had said philosophically, as she pored over a fashion plate, trying to realize a creation which nobody ever saw out of that fashion plate.
The girls seemed quite happy in their blue raiment, or at least the two younger girls, who greeted Vansittart with frank cordiality. Eve had a somewhat absent air as she shook hands, he thought, though her sudden blush thrilled him with the fancy that he might not be quite indifferent to her. He saw her glance away from him while they were talking, and look right and left, as if expecting to see someone. Could it be Sefton? Mr. Sefton came across the ice while Vansittart was asking himself that question, shook hands with the three girls, and then walked away with Eve along the path, where the hazels and alders soon hid them from the jealous eyes that followed their steps. “Miss Green was right,” thought Vansittart; “there is an understanding between them.”
The two younger girls skipped off to an adjacent bank to put on their skates, and were soon provided with a pair of youthful admirers, both clerical, to assist them in the operation. Vansittart stood looking idly at the hockey-playing for some minutes, quite long enough to allow Eve and her companion to get a good way towards the further end of the pond, and then he turned and strolled in the same direction. As he sauntered on, disgusted with life and the world, which seemed just now made up of disillusions, he heard slow footsteps approaching him, just where the
