Silverbeach Manor (11 page)

By the time
she returns to Rooksdale House, Pansy can scarcely credit she is
now engaged. Marlow leaves her at the gate with a bright and tender
face. He has to go into the town, and she seeks the private sitting
room she has reserved, with dew-wet eyes that study the betrothal
ring she wears. It is a little diamond ring that was once his
mother's, that Marlow Holme drew out from his wallet.

She casts
herself down and beseeches the blessing of God upon her shining
future. But something checks the prayer for which her soul is
hungering -- some inward sense of ingratitude, worldliness,
deceit.

With a longing
for some tender heart on which to outpour her joy, Pansy blushingly
shows her ring to Miss Ashburne. She wishes Pansy happiness with
looks of strong disapproval, and suggests that it might be well for
Mr. Traylon, the solicitor, to make inquiries into the gentleman's
means, for those who live by their pen seldom possess satisfactory
banking references.

"
What does it matter?" says Pansy to herself.
"All that I have is his. I only care about Silverbeach to give it
to
him.
How good, how clever, how
splendid
he is. How different life seems. I
shall be
perfectly
happy and satisfied
now." But uncomfortable remembrances, uneasy feelings of
ingratitude and neglect, rise between her heart and the perfect
peace that God's blessing only can bestow.

Before he
leaves Rockcombe, Marlow Holme himself introduces the subject of
money matters, and Pansy is astonished and a little disconcerted to
find he is by no means the needy individual she had somehow
imagined him.

"May's
husband said you lived in comfortless rooms, Marlow," she tells him
as they pace the pier one evening in the starlight. "I thought
writers always
were
poor -- and I thought
I was going to make you rich."

He presses her
hand to his side as it rests within his arm. "So you are, my
darling. Richer in all ways than I dreamed of being or deserved to
be. But my publishers are extremely kind and liberal, and the
public are kind enough to like my works, so my literary income is
considerable. Apart from that, I was an only child, and inherited
all my father had to leave. He was a very successful merchant. As
to my lodgings, they are quite good enough for a wandering
bachelor."

Pansy hears
the next day from Major Grenville that a large proportion of
Marlow's income is devoted to the Master's treasury, to strengthen
the hands of the workers, and brighten the lives and hearts of His
own.

"I wish you
would come to Firlands, dear," Marlow says persuasively to Pansy,
as the time for his departure from Rockcombe approaches. "Grenville
and I are going to the Wilberforce, a splendid new temperance
hotel, quite a show place, I assure you. Many ladies patronize it.
I am sure you and Miss Ashburne would be comfortable there, and I
should like to show you the Fern Cavern and the Pine Park. Both are
within easy drives."

Pansy
has picnicked many a time as a child in these places on the
birthdays of the young Sothams, when the farmer would lend one of
his wagons for his children's use. Both places are on the other
side of Firlands, and Pansy tells herself there is no need for her
to go near Polesheaton if she
spends
a
week at the Wilberforce. The Firlands people know nothing of her,
and if they ever saw her as a child they would never associate Miss
Adair with the little girl at Polesheaton post office

"We will
spend the last week of our holiday at Firlands to please you,
Marlow," she says, smilingly,
"though you do not at
all deserve it, for it is altogether
too bad of you to
turn out be well off when I longed so to enrich you!"

Old Acquaintance

MISS ASHBURNE
is graciously pleased to approve of Firlands, having found the air
beneficial when companion to a much-quoted dowager-duchess. At the
close of a lovely day, at the sunset time, the two ladies reach the
fair resort among the pines, and Major Grenville and Marlow Holme
are waiting on the station platform to escort them to a horse and
carriage. With what a tumult of strange feelings Pansy sees once
more the well-remembered streets.

Marlow thinks
her quieter than usual, and paler. He is solicitous as to her
feeling tired after the journey, but Firlands is so closely
associated in Pansy's memory with Polesheaton that the thoughts are
rushing back to her of that day when her first good dress was made
at a Firlands shop, and that hour when from Firlands station she
started out upon her new life of brilliance and grandeur.

The place has
since then been considerably enlarged, but it was always full of
delights and wonders to Pansy's childhood, and somehow it seems
smaller now than it appeared in the past, and far less wonderful
and imposing than in the days when life's greatest treat was to
look at the shop windows, so different to quiet Polesheaton.

The
ladies join the
table d'hôte
dinner at the Wilberforce, and there Pansy's worries begin.
Close beside her sits an old gentleman who used to take lodgings in
Polesheaton for the sake of sketching sometimes, and had many a
chat with her in the post office, and sometimes presented her with
chocolate from the grand confectioner's at Firlands.

Pansy
recognizes him directly, though the iron-grey hair of yore is
white, and he is less erect than he used to be. Suppose he should
recognize his little favourite of old, and before all these people
ask questions and make remarks which would let Marlow know her
former obscurity, and plunge her into shame and confusion!

Fortunately
for Pansy, the old gentleman is very cross because a certain dish
he coveted is exhausted, and he has no attention to spare beyond
his grievance. However, her dinner is spoilt for her, so great is
her dread of recognition, and she begins to wish that even for the
sake of being with Marlow she had never consented to visit
Firlands.

"I am painting
the loveliest little place I have seen for many a day," says Marlow
next morning. He is very fond of busying himself with a brush when
he has leisure. "If you and Miss Ashburne will favour me with your
company today, I should greatly like to drive you over. Grenville
will be engaged with friends from London till six, when we both are
due at a public meeting."

"If Miss Adair
is not too tired after yesterday's journey," says Miss Ashburne,
"we shall enjoy a drive this beautiful morning. Are you painting
the forest scenery, Mr. Holme?"

"No, my
subject is a picturesque old cottage covered with wisteria by the
side of a stream crowned with water lilies. I am getting in
likewise a bit of an old mill close by. Well, Pansy dear, will you
favour me today? Shall I order the carriage?"

"Whereabouts is the cottage?
"
asks
Pansy, who has a miserable feelings that such a place is part of
the Polesheaton memory. Surely the old gentleman who caused her
such agitation at yesterday's dinner has painted it again and
again. She is prepared for his reply, and makes up her mind not to
go.

"Just on the
other side of Polesheaton, a quaint little place a few miles off.
You drive through Polesheaton, and the cottage stands just by the
crossroads. A carriage road to Polesheaton has now been made
through the forest. It is lovely scenery all the way. Do say you
will come this glorious morning."

"I see the
Summits are staying here. Their name is in the visitors' list,"
says Pansy quickly. "I should like to see Lady Grace this morning.
They may be leaving soon."

He looks so
disappointed -- having very little leisure and rejoicing in the
hope of a holiday morning with Pansy -- that at last she relents,
lest he should deem her wilful and capricious. After all, there is
some secret yearning within her to look just once upon the old
church, the duck pond, the ancient houses, the tiny post office
with the birds' nests in the roof. They will only drive quickly
through -- no worry or perplexity can arise from gratifying Marlow
by taking the drive he has arranged.

The road
through the forest is gemmed with every loveliness of berry,
flower, and tree. At times it is dusky with firs, then the vision
catches glimpses of water, bracken, and wild flowers. Rabbits and
squirrels dart here and there, startled by the horse's feet. The
first hour is a happy one to Pansy, sitting opposite Marlow and
meeting his bright, loving gaze, discussing with him his
forthcoming book, and realizing that henceforth
she
has a share in the poems that help and
inspire so many. She sees how fortune has favoured her. Was ever
woman's life so rich in all that can gladden and glorify
it?

But Pansy can
scarcely carry on the conversation when, in the distance, she sees
the ivied tower of Polesheaton Church, and knows that soon they
will pass the signpost and drive through the familiar High
Street.

"Polesheaton
is such a funny little place," says Marlow. "Full of reminders of
the old coaching days, and keeping itself disapprovingly apart from
the rush and commotion of modern life."

"The sort of
place where nothing ever happens, I suppose," says Miss
Ashburne.

"Something
did
happen a few years
ago," says Marlow, smiling. "The old woman whose cottage I was
painting the other day is quite a local authority. She regaled me
with all the annals of Polesheaton. I am afraid I was thinking more
about my artistic endeavours, but I remember one event she related.
Some boy or girl from the place -- I forget which -- was adopted as
her own by a very wealthy lady, and the old woman described the
fortunate young person as 'rolling in riches' somewhere at the
present time."

"And very glad
to be out of Polesheaton, I should think," remarks Miss Ashburne.
"My dear Miss Adair, are you chilly? It struck me as so remarkably
mild this morning."

Marlow
tenderly adjusts a light shawl round Pansy who is shivering and
scanning his face with anxious eyes. But it is evident to her he
has not the slightest suspicion of any personal interest in the
anecdote.

"You must have
some lunch at Polesheaton, darling. We can picnic beside the water
lilies. Well, as I was saying, this wealthy young person has proved
richer in purse than in character, for my Polesheaton acquaintance
indignantly informed me he or she had thrown over the one relation
who had toiled and slaved for the childhood of this thankless
child, who will probably live yet to be ashamed of such miserable
ingratitude. At any rate, for the credit of human nature, let us
hope so."

"I am sure, my
dear Miss Adair," says Miss Ashburne, "you are not feeling well. I
hope Firlands will not prove too relaxing for you. Would you like
some refreshment at once? The maid put some sandwiches up, I
know."

But Pansy
shakes her head, and remarks she will be all right when she
recovers from yesterday's journey. They are at the duck pond now,
and she shrinks even from the admiring gaze of the children who
chase the carriage for pence. There is the baker's shop, with its
pretty proprietress looking almost the same as when she gave Pansy
buns and gingerbread. There is the butcher's, but his son, grown
nearly out of recognition, is serving in his stead. There is the
old inn, with its wide yard, where farm labourers have come to
dwell since the coaching days departed. There is the side entrance
to The Grange. There is the gabled post office.

How small, how
shabby it looks. The chimneys seem scarcely safe, and there is an
air of decay about it. No, it is no longer a post office. A new
post office has arisen at the tinsmith's opposite, nor is the old
post office a general shop now. There are a few straw hats in the
window, and an old fashioned book. Evidently the Polesheaton
milliner and dressmaker has here taken up her abode.

Then where is
Aunt Piper living? Has she gone to lodge with one of the
neighbours, and how is she able to live without her shop? Pansy is
trying to talk all this time about the ancient chest within the
church and the gargoyles without, but her heart throbs with longing
to see that never-forgotten face once more, and witness Aunt
Piper's joy in the embrace of her tenderly loved little Pansy
again.

But Mrs. Adair
judged rightly that Pansy would not secretly break the conditions
of her inheritance. Any voluntary communication with Aunt Piper
means the loss of Silverbeach Manor -- the forfeiture of all future
status for herself.

She glances at
Marlow. She has chosen the very room at Silverbeach where he is to
write. His study is to face the rose garden, and be luxurious and
fair as her wealth can devise. For his sake she must at any cost
keep Silverbeach. What a change the Manor will be for his poet-life
after his bachelor lodgings in town, where he has spent so little
on his own tastes and comfort.

Yet if she
could only see Aunt Piper without being herself perceived -- if
that simply clad figure, in its quiet bonnet and dress of black or
grey, were only at this moment to pass down the street. And Deb --
why, the child must actually be between eighteen and nineteen now,
almost a woman! Yet Pansy looks to right and left, thinking that
however Deb may have sprung up, she would recognize the round,
freckled face, the reddish hair, the big blue eyes. Neither Deb nor
Aunt Temperance passes down the street, however, and Pansy has no
fear that the old woman at Marlow's cottage will know her, for she
was a forgetful old body even then, and Pansy knows she is
different indeed in appearance to the child who sometimes strayed
that way for water lilies.