“I chose the colour in memory of the blue flower of happiness that you and I found on the hilltop,” he said, as he put the ring on the third finger of his sweetheart’s slender hand. “If ever you are inclined to be angry with me, or to care for me a little less than you do now, let the memory of the mystical blue flower plead for me, Eve, and the thought of how dearly we loved each other that Easter Sunday years and years ago.”
She gave a faint, shuddering sigh at the image those words evoked.
“Years and years ago! Will this day when we are young and happy ever be years and years ago? It seems so strange!”
“Age is strange and death is stranger; but they must come, Eve. All we have to hope for is that we may go on loving each other to the end.”
After those ramblings in the coppices and over the hill, there was afternoon tea at the Homestead—a feast for the gods. Colonel Marchant, well content with the progress of affairs, had gone to Brighton for the volunteer review, and was not expected home again till the end of the week; so the sisters were sovereign rulers of the house, and afternoon tea was the order of the day. It is doubtful whether dinner had any part in the scheme of their existence at this time. The short-petticoated youngsters generally carried some hunks of currant cake in a basket, and these hunks were occasionally shared with the elder sisters, and even with Vansittart, who went without his luncheon day after day, scarcely knowing that he had missed a meal. Then they all tramped home in their muddy boots—for however blue the sky and however dry the roads there was always plenty of mud in the copses—and then they all sat round the big loo table to what Hetty called a stodgy tea. Stodgy being interpreted meant a meal of cake and toast, and eggs, and bread and jam, and a succession of teapots. Vansittart only left the Homestead in time to hurry back to Redwold and dress for dinner.
On the Thursday evening the Miss Marchants who were “out” were all bidden to dinner at Redwold, and were to be driven thither by that very fly which had broken down on the crest of the snowy hill. It was a grand occasion, for an invitation to dinner rarely found its way to the Homestead. Cards for garden-parties were the highest form of courtesy to which the Miss Marchants had hitherto been accustomed. And this dinner was to be a solemn affair, for Eve was to appear at it in all the importance of her position as Vansittart’s future wife. Mrs. Vansittart was coming from London for a night or two in order to be present at the festivity, which would be in a manner Eve’s formal acceptance as a member of the family.
It was only on Thursday morning that Vansittart discovered with some vexation that Sefton had been asked to this family dinner. Sir Hubert had met him, and had invited him in a casual way, having not the faintest idea that his society would be displeasing either to Eve or her lover. The first person Eve’s eyes lighted on when she and her sisters entered the drawing-room was Mr. Sefton. He was standing near the door, and she had to pass him on her way to her hostess. He stood waiting until Lady Hartley turned to greet the younger sisters, and then at once took possession of Eve.
“As an old friend I venture to congratulate you most warmly,” he said, holding her hand, after the inevitable shake-hands of old acquaintances. “You have done wonderfully well for yourself. It is really a brilliant match.”
“For me, you mean,” she said, looking at him with an angry light in her eyes. “Why don’t you finish your sentence, Mr. Sefton, and say, ‘for you, Miss Marchant, with your disadvantages’?”
“I am sorry I have offended you.”