"Of course they don't look so nice as my books at home," said Isobel; "but they'd be something new."
"You're such a greedy reader that no doubt you will get through them, however dry they may prove," laughed her mother. "Here comes our tea. We shall enjoy new-laid eggs and fresh country butter, shan't we?"
"I wonder if they're from Mr. Binks's farm," said Isobel, seating herself at the table.—"Do you know Mr. Binks, Mrs. Jackson? He said I was to ask you, and he was sure you wouldn't deny the acquaintance."
"Know Peter Binks, miss!" exclaimed Mrs. Jackson. "Why, there isn't a soul in Silversands as doesn't know him. Binks has lived at the White Coppice ever since I was a girl, and afore then, and him church-warden too, and owner of the Britannia, as good a schooner as any about. His wife's second cousin is married to my daughter, and livin' at Ferndale. Know him! I should just say I do!"
"I thought you would!" said Isobel delightedly. "We met him in the train as we were coming. He gave me his seat by the window, and asked us to go to his farm some day. You'll be able to tell us the way, won't you?"
"Another time, dear child," said Mrs. Stewart "Mrs. Jackson's busy now, and our tea is waiting.—Thank you; yes, I think we have everything we need at present. Polly might bring a little boiling water in a few minutes, and we will ring the bell if we require anything more.—Come, Isobel, you said you were hungry!"
"A nice-spoken lady," said Mrs. Jackson afterwards to her husband in the privacy of the kitchen. "Any one could see with half an eye as they was gentlefolk, though they've only taken the back room. I wonder, now, if they can be any relation to old Mr. Stewart at the Chase. They did say as the son—him as was killed in the war—had married somewhere in furrin parts, and his father was terrible set against it, havin' a wife of his own choosin' ready for him at home. A regular family quarrel it was, and both too proud to make it up; but they said the old man was nigh heartbroken when his son was taken, and he'd never sent him a kind word. I had it all from Peter Binks's nephew, who was under-gardener there at the time."
"It might be," said Mr. Jackson oracularly, taking a pinch of snuff as he spoke, "and, on the other hand, it might not be. Stewart's by no means an uncommon kind of a name. There was a Stewart second mate on the Arizona when we took kippers over to Belfast, and there was a chap called Stewart as used to keep a snug little public down by the quay in Whitecastle, but I never heard tell as either of 'em was any connection of old Mr. Stewart up at the Chase."
"It weren't likely they should be," replied Mrs. Jackson, with scorn. "But that don't make it any less likely in this case. I remember Mr. Godfrey quite well when we lived at Linkhead, and I'd used to walk over with Emma Jane to Heatherton Church of a Sunday afternoon. A fine handsome young fellow he was, too, sittin' with his father in the family pew, takin' a yawn behind his hand durin' the sermon, and small blame to him too—old Canon Martindale used to preach that long! I can see him now, if I close my eyes, with his light hair shinin' against the red curtain of the big square pew. Little missy has quite a look of him, to my mind."
"You're always imaginin' romances, Eliza," said Mr. Jackson. "It comes of too much readin'. You and Polly sit over them stories in The Family Herald till you make up goodness knows what tales about every new party as comes to the house. There was the young man with the long hair as played the fiddle, whom you was sure was a furrin count, and who only turned out to be one of the band at Ferndale, and went off without payin' his bill; and there was a couple in the drawing-room as talked that grand about their motor car and their shootin' box and important business till you thought it was a member of Parliament and his lady, takin' a rest and travellin' incog., till you found out they was only wine merchants from Whitecastle after all. Don't you go a-meddlin'. Let them manage their own affairs, and we'll manage ours."