On the Thursday evening the Miss Marchants who were “out” were all bidden to dinner at Redwold, and were to be driven thither by that very fly which had broken down on the crest of the snowy hill. It was a grand occasion, for an invitation to dinner rarely found its way to the Homestead. Cards for garden-parties were the highest form of courtesy to which the Miss Marchants had hitherto been accustomed. And this dinner was to be a solemn affair, for Eve was to appear at it in all the importance of her position as Vansittart’s future wife. Mrs. Vansittart was coming from London for a night or two in order to be present at the festivity, which would be in a manner Eve’s formal acceptance as a member of the family.
It was only on Thursday morning that Vansittart discovered with some vexation that Sefton had been asked to this family dinner. Sir Hubert had met him, and had invited him in a casual way, having not the faintest idea that his society would be displeasing either to Eve or her lover. The first person Eve’s eyes lighted on when she and her sisters entered the drawing-room was Mr. Sefton. He was standing near the door, and she had to pass him on her way to her hostess. He stood waiting until Lady Hartley turned to greet the younger sisters, and then at once took possession of Eve.
“As an old friend I venture to congratulate you most warmly,” he said, holding her hand, after the inevitable shake-hands of old acquaintances. “You have done wonderfully well for yourself. It is really a brilliant match.”
“For me, you mean,” she said, looking at him with an angry light in her eyes. “Why don’t you finish your sentence, Mr. Sefton, and say, ‘for you, Miss Marchant, with your disadvantages’?”
“I am sorry I have offended you.”
“I don’t like to be told I have done well for myself. God has given me the love of a good man. If he were not Mr. Vansittart, but Mr. Smith with only a hundred a year, I should be just as happy.”
Vansittart, that moment approaching, overheard the familiar British patronymic. “What are you saying about Mr. Smith?” he said, remembering how two men, one the slain and the other the slayer, had hidden their identity under that name.
“I was only talking of an imaginary Smith,” she answered, her face lighting up as she turned to her lover. “There is no such person.”
“Come and look at the azaleas,” said Vansittart; “they are worth a visit;” and so, after the lover’s fashion, he who had only parted from her at six o’clock took her away to the conservatory at the other end of the room, and absorbed her into a solitude of azaleas and orange trees.
Mr. Sefton in the mean while was talking to Mrs. Vansittart, and not having done over well with his congratulation of the future bride, now occupied himself in congratulating the elder lady upon the advantage of having secured so charming a daughter-in-law.
“I quite agree with you,” replied Mrs. Vansittart. “She is very pretty, and altogether charming. The match is not of my making, but I am pleased to see my son happy, and pleased to welcome so fair a daughter. You talk as if you were an old friend of the family. Have you known Colonel Marchant long?”
“Ever since he came to this neighbourhood, nine years ago. He has been good enough to accept any little shooting I have had to offer—and he and I have seen a good deal of each other. I knew his son before I knew him. Harold Marchant and I were at Trinity together.”
“Harold Marchant is dead, I conclude?”
“That is more than I or any of his friends can tell you. He is one of that numerous family—the lost tribe of society—the men who have dropped through.”
“I don’t quite follow you.”
“My dear Mrs. Vansittart, the less said about Harold Marchant the better. If he is dead the good old saying comes in—de mortuis. If he is alive I think the less you, or your son, or your daughter-in-law have to do with him the happier it will be for you.”
“Mr. Sefton, it is not fair to talk to me in this way. I am personally interested in Eve’s brother. What do you mean?”
“Only what I might mean about a good many young men who have lived within the walls that sheltered Bacon and Newton, Whewell and Macaulay. Harold Marchant’s career at Cambridge was a foolish career. Instead of devoting himself to the higher mathematics he gave himself up to hunting, horse-racing, and other amusement of a more dangerous order. He had to leave the University hurriedly—he had to leave the country still more hastily. He has never within my knowledge come back to England. Eve is, or was, passionately attached to him, and to gratify her I have taken a good deal of trouble in trying to find out his present whereabouts and mode of life; but without avail. It is nearly ten years since he left this country. He was then two and twenty years of age. He was last heard of more than five years ago with an exploring party in Mashonaland. He is exactly the kind of young man one would like to hear of in Central Africa, and intending to stay there!”
“Poor Eve; how sad for her!”
“But that
