“Ah, you have been a wanderer in sunny lands—in Italy! And now we had better go and look for the girls.”
They roamed over Bexley Hill or Blackdown during that happy Whitsuntide, favoured with weather that made these Sussex hills a paradise. It was the season of hawthorn blossom, and an undulating line of white may bushes came dancing down the hill like a bridal procession. It was the season of bluebells; and all the woodland hollows trembled with azure bloom, luminous in sunlight, darkly purple in shadow; the season of blossoming trees in cottage gardens, of the laburnum’s golden rain, the acacia’s perfumed whiteness, the tossing balls of the guelder rose, the mauve blossoms of wistaria glorifying the humblest walls, the small white woodbine scenting the warm air. It was a season that seemed especially invented for youth and love; for the young foals sporting in the meadow; for the young lambs on the grassy hills; and for Eve and Vansittart.
They almost lived out of doors in this delicious weather. The four sisters were always ready to bear them company, and were always discreet enough to leave them alone for the greater part of every rambling expedition. Mr. Tivett had reappeared on the scene. He had been particularly useful in London, where he was full of information about the very best places for buying everything, from a diamond bracelet to a tooth-brush, and had insisted upon taking Eve and Lady Hartley to some of his favourite shops, and upon having a voice in a great many of their purchases. He took as much interest in Eve’s trousseau as if he had been her maiden aunt.
The wedding was to be the simplest ceremonial possible. Neither Vansittart nor Eve wished to parade their bliss before a light-minded multitude. The Homestead was not a house in which to entertain a large assembly; and Colonel Marchant was not a man to make a fuss about anything in life except his own comfort. He ordered a frock-coat and a new hat for the occasion; and the faithful Nancy, cook, housekeeper, and general manager, toiled for a week of industrious days in order that the house might be in faultless order, and the light collation worthy of the chosen few who were invited to the wedding. There were to be no hired waiters, no stereotyped banquet from the confectioner’s, only tea and coffee, champagne of a famous brand—upon this the Colonel insisted—and such cakes and biscuits and delicate sandwiches as Nancy knew well how to prepare. For bridesmaids, Eve had her four sisters, all in white frocks, and carrying big bunches of Maréchal Niel roses. Hetty and Peggy had been in ecstatic expectation of the day for a month, and full of speculation as to what manner of present the bridegroom would give them. They squabbled about this question almost every night at bedtime, under the sloping roof of the attic which they occupied together, close to the overhanging thatch where there was such a humming and buzzing of summer insects in the June mornings.
“He is bound to give us a present,” said Peggy. “It’s etiquette”—accentuating the first syllable.
“You should say etiquette,” reproved Hetty. “Lady Hartley lays a stress upon the kett.”
“Don’t bother about pronounciation,” muttered Peggy; “one can never get on with one’s talk when you’re so fine-ladyfied.”
“Pronounciation!” cried Hetty. “You pick up your language from Susan. No wonder Sophy is horrified at you.”
“Sophy is too fine for anything. Mr. Vansittart said so yesterday when she gave herself airs at the picnic, because there were no table napkins. I wonder what the present will be! He’s so rich, he’s sure to give us something pretty. Suppose he gives us watches?”
A watch was the dream of Peggy’s life. She thought the difference between no watch and watch was the difference between a humdrum existence and a life of exquisite bliss.