Silverbeach Manor (14 page)

"I am not my
own mistress," says Pansy, agitatedly. "Very few people know the
condition of my riches. If I break that condition I am penniless.
My property was left to me with the stipulation that I hold no
willing communication with Aunt Temperance. Mrs. Adair had taken a
dislike to her, I think, and to all idea of my former life. I
seemed so entirely to belong to her at last. I love Silverbeach
dearly. It goes to a stranger if I break the stipulation. So you
see, Martha, I am in honour bound to see nothing of Aunt
Temperance, and to refrain from speaking to her or writing to her,
whatever my own feelings might desire."

"In
honour bound," repeats Martha sharply. "Oh, well, if you think so,
Pansy, I have nothing more to say. I'm not a grand lady like you
are. I am only a plain farmer's daughter, but to
my
notions the Tower of London and all the
jewels in it, and the Bank of England with all its gold, would not
be worth going against my conscience for. Anybody's conscience must
tell them it's wrong to grieve a heart that has borne and done so
much for them in the past. It's as bad as Absalom in the Bible --
and there's never been an Absalom yet that came to any
good."

"If you
please, ma'am, will you wear your grey travelling coat or your
brown one?" asks the maid, knocking at the door. "Miss Ashburne
desired me to remind you of the time."

"My grey
coat. I am just coming," says Pansy hastily. "Come, Martha, let us
part friends. I will send your father something substantial for
Aunt Temperance. I know he will be kind enough to use it for her
benefit. You see now, Martha, I am not to be envied with all my
good fortune. '
There is
a crook in every lot,'
as the hymn says."

"You might finish the
verse, Pansy," said Martha, significantly, "for the next lines are
more important still. This is how the hymn goes: 'There is a crook
in every lot, And an earnest need for prayer.
But a lowly heart that leans on Thee, Is happy
everywhere.'
There, Pansy, I must not be hard on you, for I
am not placed just as you are. I will pray you may in all things be
guided aright."

Martha departs in her father's cart, looking troubled and
perplexed, and in the midst of flattering attentions from the hotel
people Miss Adair and her companion are driven to the station, one
of them feeling thankful in her heart when the p
ines
of Firlands are lost to sight.

David Rumsay,
Deb's husband, lodging at Lower Road Cottages, receives during the
morning a note from the graceful lady who conversed with him the
previous evening. It encloses five pounds for the case he
mentioned, but nothing is said about admission to the institution
with which Marlow Holme is connected. Pansy is glad Marlow leaves
that afternoon. She would not have him talk with Miss Piper or Deb
on any account.

Pansy's first
care when she reaches London is to send Farmer Sotham a cheque for
her aunt's benefit, asking him to use it as he sees best, and on no
account to bring her name into the question, as there are special
reasons why she desires that Miss Piper should not associate her
with the gift. Having posted the cheque, her conscience feels
easier. She tells herself that Farmer Sotham will be sure to make
comfortable provision for Miss Piper, and that while careful not to
break the stipulation made by poor Mrs. Adair, she has secured her
aunt's welfare, and proved her liberality, at any rate, to the
Sothams.

Lady Grace
Summit busies herself in planning Pansy's magnificent wedding;
Marlow Holme has literary business in America that will shortly
call him away; and the marriage is not to take place at once, there
being many important arrangements to make. But it is settled that
they will live at Silverbeach Manor, and already certain rooms are
in process of improvement and embellishment, and Pansy is devising
wonderful schemes for the purpose of lovelier effects in gardens
and grounds. She often now sees in her mind Mr. and Mrs. Cyril
Langdale. She feels thankful that instead of belonging to her first
fancy, concerning whom she has long been disenchanted, the future
holds a true soul-union with one whom she knows to be good, and
great, and noble.

Pansy's
satisfaction as to the cheque sent to Polesheaton is short-lived.
Instead of the pleasing acknowledgment she expects from one of the
Sothams, Martha writes on behalf of her father as follows: "We had
already been looking after your aunt a bit, but you know she is
proud, and one cannot help her too openly. Deb gave us a long
account of all they have been through together -- she is as devoted
to your aunt as if she belonged to her -- and they have both had
times of sore need, that is plain. We took over a few things from
the farm, and when your letter came Father spoke to her about
getting nice lodgings somewhere, and mother spoke about a new gown,
and your aunt seemed so sensible all of a sudden, and cried out,
'It's Pansy's money -- she's sending me money. Tell her I'll not
touch one farthing of it. It was the child's
love
I wanted!' Father says I am to send you
back the cheque. We Polesheaton folk will not let your Aunt
Temperance starve."

Pansy
tears up the letter and tries to forget
its
contents, but she cannot succeed in doing so. She pictures
the heart-soreness that prompted the old lady's cry; the wistful
startled face that half recognized her at Firlands, the love that
has yearned for her in vain.

***

It is the
evening of evenings at Masden Mission School -- the anniversary,
when tea and bread-and-butter and cake are to commence the
festivities, prizes are to be distributed, and the children of
Sunday and Ragged schools are to recite and sing. The tea is at
five, and children gather at the gate about half past two, finding
much excitement in the arrival of the baker's cart, and visions of
trays of buns. Every boy and girl has managed to secure some
adornment out of the ordinary, such as a bright necktie, a posy, a
medal; and Pansy has sent over from Silverbeach a collection of
plants and flowers that makes the plain schoolroom lovely as a
garden.

A live
Lord is to preside at the meeting, and this in itself makes a great
sensation at Masden. Marlow Holme, now back in England, looks as
happy as anyone deserves to be who makes young folks happy, and he
is seen in twenty places at once, with children pulling at his
coat, hanging on his arm, doing their best to get injured with the
knife wherewith he attacks the cake. All the time the young man's
heart is listening for the footstep he loves the best, and at last
Pansy's carriage is announced by an excited cheer from the
youngsters, and his beautiful
fiancée
is
at his side, in a quiet, perfect costume of dark grey cashmere, yet
with the indescribable shadow still upon her face that he anxiously
attributes to weak health.

Miss Ashburne
is here also, for the noble chairman is an acquaintance with whom
she likes to keep in touch. She disapproves of the boys and girls
and their common parents, and goes and sits in state on the
platform among the palms, where tea is handed up to her
deferentially. Pansy likes the change of scene after her everyday
grandeur. She has grown very fond of her scholars, and she is proud
of their progress. Mobs, a blue-eyed, bright-looking little fellow
is quite the hero of the evening. He is a remarkably clever lad,
and has done so well in the examination that quite a pile of prizes
is to come his way. The boy is so elated as to seem suspended on
wires. Everyone has a smile and a word for him, and he eyes the
tempting-looking books on the platform with a proud sense of
personal interest.

"Who is that?"
whispers Pansy to Marlow, when the after-meeting opens amid
lingering fragrance of tea and cake. She is looking in the
direction of a shabby, broken-down looking man in a torn coat, with
very short hair, who has shambled to a seat with eyes bent on the
ground. Many of the parents, extra well-dressed for the occasion,
whisper and nudge each other as he approaches, and there is quite a
stir among the children who all gaze in his direction, and appear
to be talking about him.

Marlow answers
in a low tone, "Poor fellow. That is Mobs's father. He used to be a
clerk and fairly respectable, but he fell through drink, and
committed forgery. He is out of prison on a ticket-of-leave. I am
seeing if the mission can help him and his poor struggling wife;
Mobs ought to be the making of the family by and by. What a shame
to stare at the poor man so. He has never entered our hall
before."

Mobs has only
just perceived his father and the whispering and nudging that is
going on. The boy is in an honoured place towards the front, but no
sooner does he realize what is taking place than he jumps up and
edges his way down to his father, sits beside him, and slips his
arm through his.

"
That's splendid," says Marlow, a little
huskily. "The poor chap has got a look of manliness already. Mobs
is his one sunbeam. Thank God, he is a good, brave, dutiful
child."

Pansy has
tears in her eyes as she watches her little scholar go up again and
again to take his prizes, followed by the proud gaze of his father,
and eagerly returning to show the beautiful books and pictures. The
man's looks are softened and calmed as he listens to the singing of
the children, and hears his boy's clear voice take a solo in a
message of Heavenly love. Can his life be despised, condemned,
forsaken of God indeed, when this child remains to him, honouring
him, claiming him tenderly as his father in sight of all the
assembly? People are not staring inquisitively at him now. They
begin to congratulate him concerning his boy, and to show a
disposition of friendliness.

"Mobs," says
Pansy to her scholar, when she has summoned him aside to help carry
in the buns, "I am very glad you went and sat by your father
tonight. What made you do it, dear?"

Mobs colours,
and mutters something about, "The Bible, and everybody looking down
on Father," and finally says, rather brokenly, "It's that text card
you gave me, Miss Adair -- it was the very day Father come
home."

"I remember
once giving you a text card. I bought a packet in London," says
Pansy. "Well, Mobs, what was the text I gave you?"

"Don't
you remember, teacher? I thought you might have known about Father,
and have given it to me a' purpose. I was almost ashamed of owning
him, coming out of
there,
but I felt
different after I got reading that card, and now I love Father with
all my heart, and I'm going to stick by him and Mother, and do for
them just all I can. This here's the text card, teacher," and he
fishes it out of his knickerbockers. "'Honour thy father and
mother... that it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long
on the earth.'"

Mobs
runs off with the buns, and Pansy is left there alone, the text
flashing into her heart like Heavenly light. Is this child to do
God's will, and is
she
to show no love
and honour to her who has taken a mother's place? "Lord, help me --
forgive -- teach me -- oh, teach me to do Thy will!" she falters,
and in that hour the heart-struggle ceases. She will give up her
rich inheritance. She will openly honour the love that loved her
helplessness.

As
Marlow Holme takes Pansy to her carriage, he says, "This will be a
glorious evening for some, my darling. Our chairman is delighted
with Mobs, and wants to undertake his training. I have told him the
family history, and my belief that the poor convict is sincerely
penitent, though almost hopeless. Our chairman has told Mobs's
father to call on him tomorrow, and bring the boy. Once
he
looks after them, I believe humanly speaking
their troubles are past, for he is sure to find just the place of
work the poor fellow can fill and regain his self-respect. How
good, how gracious the Lord is, Pansy. How His love, His
compassion, can bring light out of darkness."

Pansy silently
clings to his arm. She feels this starlit hour as though she could
scarcely say "goodbye." She means to tell him all, to hide herself
away from his contempt, to break the engagement herself that in his
heart he would surely wish cancelled. She has been thankless,
selfish, deceitful. It will be fitting that the one she loves most
should forsake her, just as she forsook the love that had nurtured
her.

"God be with
you, love," he whispers. "I shall see you tomorrow." He does not
know he will never see Pansy Adair again.

For Old Sake's Sake

PANSY'S
feelings have reached a crisis. Duty and tenderness are drawing her
to the life that cared for her orphan state. Her wealth has
gradually been becoming to her almost intolerable in the thought of
Aunt Temperance sewing for her living, and dependent on the care of
Deb's hard-working hands. Little Mobs, faithful to the bidding on
his text card, has made up her mind.

All that night
she lies wakeful, trying to form some plans for the future, trying
to compose a letter of explanation to Marlow Holme. She rises
early, and begins more than one letter to him, wet with her tears,
but in the end she addresses to his apartments in town a few brief
lines only. They read abrupt and cold, for the tension of her
feelings is such that she dare not trust herself to say more to
him:

This letter is
to bid you farewell. It is better our engagement should end. I have
deceived you. Forget our past engagement; this is to set you free.
I enclose the ring you gave me. Pansy.