And, indeed, it was true. Elsie had been to Dresden for two years. She had returned to Elmsdale the previous day, and a scribbled note told Martin to look for her after tea.
The two set off together through the village, bound for the moor. Many a critical look followed them.
“Eh, but they’re a bonny pair,” cried Mrs. Summersgill, who became stouter each year. “Martin allus framed to be a fine man, but I nivver thowt yon gawky lass o’ t’ vicar’s ’ud grow into a beauty.”
“This moor air is wonderful. Look at the effect it has on you, Mrs. Summersgill,” said Colonel Grant with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, go on wi’ ye, Colonel, pokin’ fun at a poor owd body like me. But I deän’t ho’d wi’ skinny ’uns. Martha, what’s become o’ Mrs. Saumarez an’ that flighty gell o’ hers. What did they call her—Angel? My word!—a nice angel—not that she wasn’t as thin as a sperrit.”
“Miss Walker told me, last Christmas twel’month, they were i’ France,” said Martha.
“France? Ay, maist like; it’s a God-forsaken place, I’ll be boun’.”
“Nay,” interposed Bolland, “that’s an unchristian description of onny counthry, ma’am. Ye’ll find t’ Lord ivverywhere i’ t’ wide wulld, if ye seek Him. There’s bin times when He might easy be i’ France, for He seemed, iv His wisdom, to be far away frae Elmsdale.”
Mrs. Summersgill snorted contempt for all “furriners,” but Martha created a diversion.
“Goodness me!” she cried, “yer cup’s empty. I nivver did see sike a woman. Ye talk an’ eat nowt.”