“The Martyns,” said Mrs Ravenhill.
No one answered. They stood and watched the little cavalcade slowly mounting. Shadows deepened, the clear air was fragrant with newly-mown grass, a star trembled into sight. It was very solemn and peaceful.
Chapter Four.
At Six in the Morning.
By fits and starts Wareham was an early riser, and the next morning he was out between five and six. By that time the sun was high in the heavens, dews were dried, life—insect and plant-life—was in eager movement. A cottage with a wonderful roof, lying not far from the foot of the fos, had attracted him the day before; he crossed the zigzags, made out a narrow path over short grass, and reached it.
It was a tiny cottage, built partly of stones heaped roughly one on the other, partly of boards of many shapes and sizes, a hut full of odd cranks and changes, deep eaves on one side, a perched-up window on another. But what had attracted Wareham to closer inspection was the roof, lovely with waving grass, sorrel, starlike daisies, and a mass of lilac pansies. It was the subject Mrs Ravenhill would pounce upon to sketch, and he felt a gentle gratitude towards the Ravenhills for the small demands they made upon him. An extraordinarily stony little path flung itself headlong towards the lake, through tall emerald-green rye; he stumbled down a few yards to look back at the hut, standing out against a violet mountain, all the colours sharply insistent in the clear morning air. To his extreme astonishment he saw Miss Dalrymple appear on the crest of the hill, and make her way down towards him. She came lightly and firmly, stepping from stone to stone without hesitation. She wore a white dress, and the impression she gave was of some one younger than he had fancied her. As she drew nearer the impression strengthened by her calling out gaily—
“I have just discovered what it is all like; Sunday morning, the freshness, and the enchanting air. Do you know?”
“No.” He added in spite of himself—“Tell me.”