“Small, retiring, and—” so far Lord Lufton had gone, when Mrs. Robarts finished by the word, “plain.” She had liked Lucy’s face, but she had thought that others probably did not do so.
“Upon my word,” said Lady Lufton, “you don’t deserve to have a sister-in-law. I remember her very well, and can say that she is not plain. I was very much taken with her manner at your wedding, my dear; and thought more of her than I did of the beauty, I can tell you.”
“I must confess I do not remember her at all,” said his lordship. And so the conversation ended.
And then at the end of the fortnight Mark arrived with his sister. They did not reach Framley till long after dark—somewhere between six and seven—and by this time it was December. There was snow on the ground, and frost in the air, and no moon, and cautious men when they went on the roads had their horses’ shoes cocked. Such being the state of the weather Mark’s gig had been nearly filled with cloaks and shawls when it was sent over to Silverbridge. And a cart was sent for Lucy’s luggage, and all manner of preparations had been made. Three times had Fanny gone herself to see that the fire burned brightly in the little room over the porch, and at the moment that the sound of the wheels was heard she was engaged in opening her son’s mind as to the nature of an aunt. Hitherto papa and mamma and Lady Lufton were all that he had known, excepting, of course, the satellites of the nursery.
And then in three minutes Lucy was standing by the fire. Those three minutes had been taken up in embraces between the husband and the wife. Let who would be brought as a visitor to the house, after a fortnight’s absence, she would kiss him before she welcomed any one else. But then she turned to Lucy, and began to assist her with her cloaks.
“Oh, thank you,” said Lucy; “I’m not cold,—not very at least. Don’t trouble yourself: I can do it.” But here she had made a false boast, for her fingers had been so numbed that she could not do nor undo anything.
They were all in black, of course; but the sombreness of Lucy’s clothes struck Fanny much more than her own. They seemed to have swallowed her up in their blackness, and to have made her almost an emblem of death. She did not look up, but kept her face turned towards the fire, and seemed almost afraid of her position.
“She may say what she likes, Fanny,” said Mark, “but she is very cold. And so am I,—cold enough. You had better go up with her to her room. We won’t do much in the dressing way to-night; eh, Lucy?”
In the bedroom Lucy thawed a little, and Fanny, as she kissed her, said to herself that she had been wrong as to that word “plain.” Lucy, at any rate, was not plain.
“You will be used to us soon,” said Fanny, “and then I hope we shall make you comfortable.” And she took her sister-in-law’s hand and pressed it.