‘Yes, Miss Jordan, everything. It is due to you. May I sit here by you on the garden seat?’
She seated herself, with a smile, and made room for him, drawing her skirts to her.
The ten-week stocks, purple and white, in a bed under the window filled the air with perfume; but a sweeter perfume than ten-week stocks, to Barbara, charged the atmosphere—the perfume of perfect confidence. Was Barbara plain? Who could think that must have no love for beauty of expression. She had none of her sister’s loveliness, but then Eve had none of hers. Each had a charm of her own,—Eve the charm of exquisite physical perfection, Barbara that of intelligence and sweet faith and complete self-devotion streaming out of eye and mouth—indeed, out of every feature. Which is lovelier—the lantern, or the light within? There was little of soul and character in frivolous Eve.
When Jasper seated himself beside Miss Jordan neither spoke for full ten minutes. She folded her hands on her lap. Perhaps their souls were, like the ten-week stocks, exhaling sweetness.
‘Dear Miss Jordan,’ said Jasper, ‘how pleasantly the thrushes are singing!’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but I want to hear your story—I can always listen to the thrushes.’
He was silent after this for several minutes. She did not further press him. She knew he would tell her all when he had rallied his courage to do so. They heard Eve upstairs in her room lightly singing a favourite air from ‘Don Giovanni.’
‘It is due to you,’ said Jasper at last. ‘I will hide nothing from you, and I know your kind heart will bear with me if I am somewhat long.’
She looked round, smiled, just raised her fingers on her lap and let them fall again.
When Jasper saw that smile he thought he had never seen a sweeter sight. And yet people said that Barbara was plain!