They were standing in the hall. It was large—at least it seemed so in comparison with the impression given by the outside of the house, which Jacinth knew so well, and which was really cottage-like. The hall was wainscoted in oak half-way up, where the panels met a bluish-green Japanese-looking paper. A really old oriental paper it was, such as is not even nowadays to be procured in England, so thickly covered with tracery of leaves and flowers and birds and butterflies in a delightful tangle, that the underlying colour was more felt than seen. A short staircase of wide shallow steps ran up one side, disappearing apparently into the wall, and up this staircase, rather to Jacinth's surprise—for there were several doors in the hall leading, no doubt, to the principal ground-floor rooms—stepped Thornley in a gingerly manner till he reached the little landing at the top. There he threw open a door, papered like the walls so cleverly as to be invisible when closed, though it was a good-sized door—wide and high. And as soon as the girl, following behind, caught sight of the vista now revealed, she wondered no more, as she had been doing, at Lady Myrtle's choosing an up-stairs room for her boudoir.
'In a town it would be different,' Jacinth had been saying to herself, 'but in the country it's so much nicer to be able to get out into the garden at once.'
But she did not understand the peculiar architecture of Robin Redbreast. A glow of colour met her eyes, for the door in the wall opened on to a gallery, three sides of which ran round an inner hall on the ground-floor, while the fourth—that facing her—was all conservatory, and conservatory of the most perfect kind. The girl started, half-dazzled by the unexpected radiance, and drew a quick breath of satisfaction, as the butler passed along the side of the gallery and threw open a door leading in among the flowers—she, following closely, lingered a moment while the old servant passed on, partly to give him time to announce her, partly to enjoy for half an instant the fragrance and beauty around her.
Then came a voice, and a figure in the inner doorway—the figure that already seemed so familiar to her, though she had seen it but once.
'My dear child—my dear Jacinth,' and she felt two kind arms thrown round her, and the soft withered cheek of the old lady pressed against her own. 'This is delightful—to have you all to myself—my own child for the time.'
Jacinth's usually cold unimpulsive nature was strongly moved; there is always something impressive and touching in the emotion of the aged. And Lady Myrtle, one felt by instinct, was rarely demonstrative.
The girl looked up in her face, and there came a slight mistiness over the hazel eyes, which her new old friend seemed to know so well—oh so well!—the sight of them carried her back half a century; and, above all, when Jacinth began to speak, she felt as if all the intervening years were a dream, and that she was again a girl herself, listening to the voice of Jacinth Moreland.
'I am so very pleased to come. I have been longing to see you again,' said her young guest. Thornley had discreetly withdrawn. 'And how lovely it is here! You don't know how I enjoy seeing flowers again like these.'
'It is pretty, isn't it?' said Lady Myrtle, pleased by the frank admiration. 'In cold weather I am sometimes shut up a good deal, and my garden is my great delight. So I tried to make myself a little winter garden, you see. I have had to stay up here the last few days, but I hope to go about again as usual to-morrow. And of course I shall go down to luncheon and dinner to-day. I waited to ask you to come, my dear, till I was better. I could not have let you be all by yourself in the dining-room.'
'Oh,' exclaimed Jacinth, with sudden compunction, 'I should have asked if you were better. How could I forget?'