I assured Uncle Max that I had fallen in love with the White Cottage, and that I liked Mrs. Barton excessively, that my bedroom was especially cosy and was most comfortably furnished. 'You will see how pretty this room will look when I put up my new curtains and pictures,' I went on; 'it is a little bare at present, but it will soon have a more furnished appearance. I mean to be so busy to-morrow settling all my treasures.' And I spoke with so much animation that Uncle Max smiled at what he called my youthful enthusiasm.
'You may be as busy as you like all day,' he returned, in his pleasant way, 'so that you come up to the vicarage in the afternoon to see Mrs. Drabble. Lawrence will be out: that fellow always is out,'—in a humorous tone of vexation. 'He makes himself so confoundedly agreeable that people are always asking him to dinner: he is terribly secular, is Lawrence, but he is young and will mend. Come up to the vicarage and dine with me, Ursula; I want you to taste Mrs. Drabble's pancakes: they are food for angels, as Lawrence always says.'
I accepted the invitation a little regretfully, for it seemed hard to leave my hermitage the first evening; but then Uncle Max had been so good to me that it would never do to disappoint him, and, as Mr. Tudor would be out, we should be very cosy together.
Mrs. Barton brought in the ham and eggs at this moment, and I sat down before my gay little tea-tray, marvelling secretly at the scarlet flamingo. There were plenty of homely delicacies on the table,—hot cakes and honey, and a basket of brown-and-yellow pippins. Uncle Max shook his head and pretended the hot cakes would ruin his digestion, but he enjoyed them all the same, and made an excellent meal.
We sat for a long time talking over the fire, chiefly of Lesbia and Jill, for he took a warm interest in them both; but about eight o'clock he remembered he had an engagement, and went off rather hurriedly, and I went upstairs and unpacked one of my boxes, and arranged my clothes in the chest of drawers and in the big, roomy cupboard.
When the church clock struck ten, I went down again in search of hot water. At the sound of my footstep, Mrs. Barton came out in the passage and invited me into the kitchen.
'There is only Nat there at his books,' she said, in her plaintive voice; 'he works late sometimes, though I tell him he uses up candle and firelight. Please make yourself at home, Miss Garston; we shall always be pleased to see you in our kitchen, when you like to pop in.'
'I hope I shall not come too often,' I returned, looking round at its bright snug appearance. A square of dark carpet covered part of the red-tiled floor; the round deal table in the centre was hidden under a crimson cloth, and two big elbow-chairs stood on each side of the wide fireplace. Nathaniel sat in one, with a little round table in front of him, covered with books and papers, with a small lamp for his own use. Mrs. Barton's work-box and mending-basket were on the centre table, the hearth had just been swept up, there was a smell of hot bread, and a row of freshly-baked loaves were cooling on the dresser; the firelight shone on the gleaming pewter and brass utensils, and a great tabby cat sat purring on the elbow of Nathaniel's chair. I thought he seemed a little confused at my entrance, for he got up rather awkwardly and shuffled his papers together, so I took pity on his embarrassment, and only spoke to Mrs. Barton.
She took me into the little outer kitchen to show me where she did her cooking, and I asked her in a low voice what he was studying.
'He does a little of everything,' she said, with a sort of suppressed pride in her voice. 'Sometimes it is history, and oftener summing; he will have it that a man cannot have too much learning, and that he wants to improve himself; he is always fretting because he never had a chance when he was young, all along of his having to work when his poor father died, and so he is all for making up for lost time; sometimes Dr. Hamilton comes in and helps him with the Latin and—what do you call those figures?'