“That’s Billy. He does everything Maria doesn’t choose to do, in addition to grooming the horses. You will observe he is the complete groom—minus livery!”
Ann’s eager glance swept the low, two-storied cottage which faced her. It was a cosy, home-like looking little house, approached by a wide flagged path bordered with sweet, old-fashioned country flowers. One of its walls was half concealed beneath a purple mist of wistaria, while on the other side of the porch roses nodded their heads right up to the very eaves of the roof. From the green-clothed porch itself clustered trumpets of honeysuckle bloom poured forth their meltingly sweet perfume on the air. And framed in the green and gold of the honeysuckle, her face wreathed in smiles, stood the comfortable figure of Maria Coombe.
Ann was conscious of a sudden tightening about her throat. The sight of Maria, with her shrewd, kindly eyes smiling above her plump pink cheeks, and her hands thrust deep into the big, capacious pockets of her snowy apron, just as she remembered her in the long-ago nursery days at Lovell, brought back a flood of tender memories—of the old home in Devon which she had loved so intensely, of Virginia, frail and sweet, filling the place of that dead mother whom she had never known, of all that had gone to make up the happy, care-free days of childhood.
“Maria!” With a cry Ann fled up the flagged path, and the next moment Maria’s arms had enveloped her and she was coaxing and patting and hugging her just as she had done through a hundred childish tragedies in years gone by, with the soft, slurred Devon brogue making familiar music in Ann’s ears.
“There now, there now, miss dear, don’t ‘ee take on like that. ‘Tis a cup of tea you be wanting, sure’s I’m here. An’ I’ve a nice drop of water nearing the boil to make it for you.”
She drew Ann into the living-room—a pleasant sunshiny room with a huge open hearth that promised roaring fires when winter came—and whisked away into the back regions to brew the tea.
Ann smiled up at Robin rather dewily.
“Oh, Robin, we ought to be awfully happy here!” she exclaimed. As she spoke, like a shadow passing betwixt her and the sun, came the memory of the morning at Montricheux, when she had been waiting for Lady Susan’s coming and some vague foreboding of the future had knocked warningly at the door of her consciousness. For a moment the walls of the little room seemed to melt away, dissolving into thick folds of fog which rolled towards her in ever darker and darker waves, threatening to engulf her. Instinctively she stretched out her hand to ward them off, but they only drew nearer, closing round her relentlessly. And then, just as she felt that there was no escape, and that they must submerge her utterly, there came the rattle of crockery, followed by Maria’s heavy tread as she marched into the room carrying the tea-tray, and the illusion vanished.
“There’s your tea, Miss Ann and Master Robin, an’ some nice hot cakes as I’ve baked for you.” Maria surveyed her handiwork with obvious satisfaction. “And I’m sure I wish you both luck and may a dark woman be the first to cross your threshold.”
“You superstitious old thing, Maria!” laughed Robin. “As if it could make twopenny-worth of difference whether a blonde or brunette called upon us first!”