Martha seemed in nowise delighted with the appearance of the pretty cottage farm, with its low thick thatch and dense ivy, which covered the walls like a cloak. Neither was she excited by the sight of the old-fashioned garden, gay with homely flowers; but she did accept a rosebud, and a sprig of that pleasant herbaceous plant which Brother William called “Old Man,” pinning them tightly at the top of her dress with a very large pin, which her host took out of the edge of his waistcoat.
“That is a pretty dress,” he said admiringly. “One o’ my favourite colours. There’s nowt like laylock and plum.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Martha quietly; and she then followed Brother William into the clean, homely keeping-room, where Joe’s wife—Joe being one of Brother William’s labourers—who did for him, as he expressed it, had prepared the tea, which was spread upon one of the whitest of cloths. Beside the ordinary preparations for the infusion of the Chinese leaf, there was an abundance of country delicacies—ham of the host’s own growing and curing; rich moist radishes; the yellowest of butter, so sweetly fresh as to be scented; the brownest of loaves, and the thickest of cream.
Martha looked round at the bright homely furniture of the room, the bees’-waxed chairs, the polished bureau of walnut inlaid with brass, the ancient eight-day clock, and the side-table with its grey-and-red check cotton cover, highly decorated tea-tray, set up picture-fashion, and a few books.
“Ah,” said Brother William, seeing the direction of his visitor’s eyes, “I haven’t got many books. That’s the owd Bible. Got mine and Fanny’s birthdays in. That’s mother’s owd hymn-book; and here’s a book here, if you like. If Fanny would lay that up by heart, ’stead o’ reading them penny gimcracks, she’d be a-doing herself some good.” As he spoke, he took up a well-used old book in a brown cover, which opened easily in his hand. “That’s Bowcroft’s Farmer’s Compendium, that is. I’ll lend it to you, if you like. Stodge-full of receipts for cattle-drinks and sheep-dressings; and there’s a gardener’s calendar in it too. I wouldn’t take fi’ pound for that book, Martha. There ain’t many like it, even up at Sir James Scarlett’s, I’ll be bound. That’s litrichur, that is.”
Fanny did not enter with them. She preferred to have a good look at the garden, she said; and she lingered there for some time, her “good look at the garden” taking in a great many protracted looks up and down the lane, each of which was followed by a disappointed frown and a sigh.
“Won’t you take off your bonnet and jacket, Martha Betts?” said Brother William. “You can go up to Fanny’s old bedroom, or you can hang ’em up behind the door on the Peg.”
Martha thought she would hang them up on the peg that was behind the door; and Brother William looked stolidly on, but in an admiring way, as he saw the quick deft manner in which his visitor divested herself of these outdoor articles of garb, made her hair smooth with a touch, and then brought out an apron from her pocket, unrolled it, and from within, neatly folded so that it should not crease, one of those natty little scraps of lace that are pinned upon the top of the head and called by courtesy a cap.
“Hah!” said Brother William, as the cap was adjusted and the apron fastened on; “the kettle is byling, but we may as well look round before you make the tea.”
“Thank you,” said Martha calmly.