"That's John Henry," said Jeremy, "Margery's eldest."
"What's he got a mourning band on for?" asked Jane, and he explained that Jacob's mother had died during the previous winter.
They passed into the shadowy stillness of the fir wood and soon emerged before Red House. The contours of the place were unchanged, save for that gradual growth of tree and shrub which escapes the human eye; but in certain particulars there were alterations; the old severity of outline was gone; there was less tidiness and more beauty, for there had come children and flowers. Margery loved flowers and the plantings of her first wedded year, greatly prospering, now climbed Red House to its roof and increased on the river banks. Where roses and bright blossoms could grow, she had planted them; and they had passed over the river also and mantled the borders. They intruded into the vegetable patches and so greatly increased that Jacob sometimes grumbled and uprooted. Where Margery might set a climbing rose, a tiger lily, a lupin or a larkspur, she had done so. There were clumps of chrysanthemums for autumn, and the grass and river sides were sowed with daffodil and crocus for the spring. This colour flashed in stars and sprays upon the hedges and by the paths, while in the little garden, once a plat of grass and no more, now opened many flower beds that broke the green. Even to the kennels she had gone and roses now hid many of the iron bars. She declared that her passion was for children, flowers and company; and of these she lacked not the children, or the bloom.
Margery, in a white gown and a dark blue sunbonnet, met her brother and his wife and kissed them both. Now she was thirty-four and a woman of fine presence, yet slight as in her girlhood and delicately fashioned. She was healthy, but not physically strong. Her eyes told no secrets but gazed untroubled at the world. None wholly enjoyed her confidence and she spoke ever of her good fortune, never concerning any thorn that might be conceded. Thus she was believed to be a woman wholly happy, and indeed enjoyed her share of happiness. The delight of a secret had lately lent sauce to existence; for she, and she alone, was in Jeremy's confidence and had heard of his betrothal and marriage.
She greeted them with kindly laughter, chid them for a brainless couple and hoped that her brother would at last find work worthy of a married man and within his power to accomplish.
Jeremy felt no doubt of it. He prattled to Avis and Auna, his little nieces, while Margery turned her attention to Jane.
"I shall always care a lot for you," she said frankly, "first for your husband's sake, then for a reason you forget, but I do not. I mind you as a little one fifteen years ago, when my husband made holiday before I was married, and took me to Bullstone Farm. That was a great day in my life—my first treat with Jacob."
"I remember you very well," answered Jane. "I've told Jeremy I've never forgot you, and I had a bit of your wedding-cake, that mother brought home from the Huxams.
"And what about your wedding-cake?"
"We didn't have anything like that. Jeremy was so properly anxious to get the deed done that we rushed it. Mrs. Huxam's forgiven us, because she says we were in Higher Hands, and that if the Lord hadn't wanted it to happen, it wouldn't have; but my mother feels it was a good bit of a slight to keep it dark, and thinks Jeremy was undutiful and didn't pay me enough respect. But what does it all matter?"