It was a rippling, throaty noise, sweet and oft-repeated; scarcely enough to rouse one from deep slumber. But the vibrant, clanging note which followed, effectually wakened him. The early sunlight was flooding the room, and, beyond the open window, the lake stretched, a vast shield of radiant blue and gold. He sat up in bed, half bewildered, staring. A spreading bush of bleeding-heart grew before the low window. It was in full bloom, its long sprays of deep, pink hearts hanging, like jewels, against the green of the wet lawn. A slow procession now passed: seven bronze turkey hens, with necks outstretched went by in single file, and a little space behind them, every feather bright with a metallic sheen, his wattles, blue and scarlet, dangling beneath his open beak, the gobbler. Close by his side, with light steps, a snow-white turkey-hen walked delicately.
Derek could have shouted, the picture was so beautiful, so arranged, as for a stage effect. He thought of it the while he dressed, and dashed his face with icy water from the ewer.
The table was set for him in the dining room. The sound of turning machinery and a loud voice singing came from the kitchen. Mrs. Machin appeared. In the daylight her face looked yellower, her eyes more like oysters, and her apron more snowy than ever. She twisted her pale lips into a smile.
15
