He walked up and down the terrace with them for nearly half an hour, but never a hint of anything more than lightest society talk gave he in all that time. He had made up his mind to speak only after gravest deliberation, only in the calmest hour, when they two should be alone together under God’s quiet sky; but he so managed matters that Mr. Sefton had no further opportunity of offering his invidious attentions to Eve Marchant that afternoon. It was Vansittart who found seats for her and her sister in the drawing-room; it was Vansittart who carried their teacups, assisted only by Mr. Tivett, who tripped about with plates of chocolate biscuits, and buttered buns, with such activity as to appear ubiquitous.
The next day was Good Friday, a day of long church services and no visitors. On Saturday Vansittart went to Liss to spend the day with his mother, and to make a tour of grounds and home farm, a round of grave inspection which the mother and son took together, and during which they talked of many things, but not of Eve Marchant. If Mrs. Vansittart wondered that her son should have chosen to spend the recess at Redwold rather than at Merewood, she was too discreet to express either wonder or dissatisfaction. She was going to Charles Street directly after Easter, and Jack was to join her there for the London season; so she had no ground for dolefulness in being deprived of his society for just this one week.
She found him looking well, and, to her fancy, happier than he had looked for a long time. There was a ring of gaiety in his voice and laugh which she had missed of late years, and which she heard again today. They lunched together, and she drove him to the station in the late afternoon.
“It delights me to see you looking so well and so happy, Jack,” she said, as they walked up and down the platform.
“Does it, mother?” he asked earnestly. “Is my happiness really enough to gladden you? Are you content that I should be happy in my own way?”
There were some moments of silence, and then she said gravely, “Yes, Jack, I am content, for I cannot believe that your way would be a foolish way. You have seen enough of the world to judge between gold and dross, and you are not the kind of man to plunge wilfully into a morass, led by false lights.”
“No, no, mother, you may be sure of that. My star shall be a true star—no Jack o’ Lantern.”
The train steamed in opportunely, and cut short the conversation; but enough had been said, Vansittart thought, to break the ice; and it was evident to him that his mother had an inkling of the course which events were taking.
The next day was Easter Sunday, a day when the morning sun is said to dance upon the waters; a day when the dawn seems more glorious, when the flowers that deck the churches seem fairer than mere earthly flowers, when the swelling chords of the organ and the voices even of the village choir have a sweetness that suggests the heavenly chorus. To John Vansittart, at least, among those who worshipped in the village church that Easter Day, there seemed a gladness in all things—a pure and thrilling gladness as of minds attuned to holiness and ready to believe. He had read much of that new and widening school of thought which is gradually sapping the old foundations and pulling down the old bulwarks; but there was no remembrance of that modern school in his mind today as he stood up in the village church to join in the Easter hymn. His thoughts had resumed the simplicity of early years. He was able to believe and to pray like a little child.
He prayed to be forgiven for that unpremeditated sin of which the world knew not. He prostrated himself in heart and mind at the feet of the Christ who died for sinners. But he did not go to the Altar. The Easter Communion was not for him whose hands were stained with blood.
The Marchants were at the morning service, all five of them, fresh and blooming after their long walk, a bunch of English roses, redder or paler as Nature had painted each. Eve, tallest, fairest, loveliest, was conspicuous among the sisters.
“By Jove! how handsome that girl is!” whispered little Tivett, as he ducked to put away his hat.
He and Vansittart were sitting apart from the rest, the Redwold pew being full without them.
“I want to walk home with them after church,” whispered Vansittart, also intent upon the disposal of the Sunday cylinder. “Will you come too?”
“With pleasure.”
This was before the service began, before the priest and choir had come into the chancel.
The service was brief, a service of jubilant hymns and anthem and short flowery sermon, flowery as the chancel and altar, and pulpit and font, in all their glory of arums, azaleas, spireas, and lilies of the valley. The church clock was striking twelve as the major part of the congregation poured out. There was a row of carriages in the road, two of them from Redwold Towers; but Vansittart and Tivett declined the accommodation of landau or wagonette.
“We are going for a long walk,” said Mr. Tivett. “It’s such a perfect day.”
“But you will lose your lunch, if you go too far.”
“We must risk that, and make amends at afternoon-tea.”
“Tivett,” said Vansittart, when the carriages had driven off, “I am going
