This was to be the greatest “Feast” that Katherine had ever known, because Philip was, of course, to be with her. It was to be, for them both, the crowning of their love by the place, the soil, the good Glebeshire earth. To Katherine it seemed that if anything untoward happened on this day, it would be as though Glebeshire itself rejected them. She would confess to no one how solemn it seemed to her....
Uncle Tim was in charge of the party. Timothy Faunder had not, for many, many years missed a “Feast”; thither he went, his outward appearance cynical and careless as ever, but obeying, inwardly, more sacred instincts than he would acknowledge. He would be in charge of Katherine, Millie, Philip, Rachel—Henry did not care to go.
The 24th of March was wonderful weather. Uncle Tim, coming over from his house up the road, to luncheon, said that he had never seen a finer day. He said this to his sister Harriet, standing before the window of her little room, looking down upon the lawn that reflected the sunny shadows like a glass, looking down upon the clumps of daffodils that nodded their heads to him from the thick grass by the garden wall. Harriet was very fond of her brother; she had an intimate relationship with him that had never been expressed in words by either of them. She was a little afraid of him. She was sitting now writing notes. She did not pause as she talked to him, and sometimes she rubbed the side of her nose with her fingers in a puzzled way. She wrote a large sprawling hand, and often spelt her words wrongly.
This conversation was before luncheon.
“Well, Harriet,” Tim said. “How are you?”
She looked up for a moment at his big, loose, untidy body, his shaggy beard, his ruffled hair.
“Why do you never brush your hair, Tim? It’s such a bad example for Henry. And you’re standing in the light.... Thank you.... Oh—I’m very well. Why didn’t you come in last night, as you said you would?... Yes, I’m quite well, thank you.”
“I went walking,” said Timothy. “I do brush my hair, only I am not going to put grease on it for anybody ... How do you like the young man?”
Mrs. Trenchard nodded her head several times as though she were adding up a sum.
“He likes it here, I think, although of course it must be quiet for him—‘And if Tuesday—isn’t convenient—suggest—another day—next week!’ ”