Silverbeach Manor (5 page)

At last the
day of departure comes round. Long before she is due at The Grange,
Pansy arrays herself in the drab travelling costume trimmed with
brown fur that has been made at the leading Firlands draper's, and
wanders about her room, scarcely caring to go downstairs and face
her aunt at breakfast. Deb has received a bequest of her old
dresses and many of her possessions, but for all that the little
handmaid's eyes are red as she boils an egg in honour of the
traveller, and places before Pansy a quarter of a pound of best
fresh butter and one of Miss Piper's best baked loaves.

"Make a good
breakfast, darling," says Aunt Temperance, cheerily. "The egg is
boiled just as you like it, and I have ground you some fresh coffee
and made it half with milk as a treat."

Then the
remembrance comes to her that this is the last meal she will
provide for Pansy, and Miss Piper is in half a mind to retreat to
the washhouse, lest Pansy might be depressed by her looks.

"I will
write and tell you of our arrival at Silverbeach Manor. We are to
stay there a fortnight before we travel," says Pansy
huskily.
"
I am certain Mrs. Adair will
let me write to you now and then, auntie dear -- she is kindness
itself."

But Miss Piper
understands that the lady who has adopted her child is kind in her
own way and according to her own will -- selfish even in her
liberality -- and she expects very little from Pansy's promises of
letters.

"I wonder when
we shall see you again, Miss Pansy?" says Deb, laying a timid,
reverent finger on the fur. "Lawks, miss, what a sight of money
that there must have cost!"

But the costly
furs represent nothing like the love which baked the loaf and
ground the coffee, and searched for that new laid egg for Pansy's
last breakfast in Polesheaton.

"Well, I must
be going," says the girl, trying to speak briskly. "Take care of my
chickens, Deb, and Auntie darling, I know you will give my canary
his Sunday groundsel. I will make both your fortunes yet -- see if
I do not. Goodbye, Deb. Be a good girl and take care of Aunt
Temperance. Goodbye, dear, dear Auntie. I never will forget you. I
never will love you less, wherever I am."

"Goodbye, my
little Pansy -- God bless and keep my child!" says Miss Piper as
she folds the girl in a trembling embrace.

Pansy rather
wonders that her aunt can keep from crying -- her own tears are
flowing like rain. The next moment somebody requiring stamps knocks
hurriedly on the counter and Temperance Piper goes into the shop,
while Pansy Piper leaves the place by way of the garden and enters
The Grange as Pansy Adair.

"A very good
fit," says Mrs. Adair, approvingly surveying the drab costume. "You
have a very tolerable figure, Pansy, and a few lessons in
deportment will do wonders for you. It is not nearly time to start
for Firlands yet. You are earlier than I expected, but you can help
me pack the evening dresses. My maid is dreadfully tiresome about
getting neuralgia at most inconvenient times. She is fit for
nothing today. Why, what on earth are you crying about, child?"

"I don't
like leaving Aunt Temperance," says Pansy. "She looks so poorly and
so low-spirited. You
will
let me write to
her now and then -- once a week at least, won't you, dear Mrs.
Adair?"

"Come,
child, do not be babyish," says Mrs. Adair
impatiently. "We have gone over this matter again and again.
It is even now not too late for you to change your mind. I am
perfectly willing to drive away without you, and leave you to an
existence in Polesheaton, if you think it preferable to a change of
fortune."

"Oh no! I'm
more grateful to you than I can say," answers Pansy in a stifled
voice.

"Well, then,
pray put that wet handkerchief away and bathe your eyes, and look
respectable when Mr. Langdale presently rides in to be our escort
to Firlands station. I detest red eyes, child. My nerves are really
in too low a state to stand a repetition of such a scene. There is
not a girl in Polesheaton who does not envy you today and long to
be in your place. Remember that, Pansy."

The mention of
Cyril Langdale gives a new turn to Pansy's thoughts, and having
bathed her eyes she fastens a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in her
travelling coat, and soon cheers up in rapture over Mrs. Adair's
evening dresses.

By and by
Langdale arrives on horseback, looking, thinks Pansy, more
aristocratic than ever. Then the carriage and pair draws up before
The Grange, and quite a crowd has gathered to see the last of the
London lady and to witness the departure of Miss Piper's niece.
Neither her aunt nor Deb is there, being busy at letter sorting
just then; but Ellen and Martha Sotham from the farm are smiling
and nodding on the pavement, and the young girl at the shoe shop is
waving kisses affectionately.

A group of old
men and women discuss Pansy's appearance and speak out in
wonderment, "To think of that, now! Don't she look like the
Princess Royal in them fine new clothes, and a silk umbrella,
a-sitting up in a carriage and pair along with the quality!"

Neither Mrs.
Adair nor Cyril Langdale appears to hear these remarks, but Pansy's
cheeks are burning and she suspects the coachman and footman of
hidden amusement. She is thankful when the fingerpost pointing to
Polesheaton is left behind, and Mrs. Adair takes her hand
caressingly, saying, "Now, Pansy, you have left those dreadful,
backward people behind for ever. You are my charge now, and if you
please and satisfy me, a golden future lies before you."

Pansy notices
that Mr. Langdale addresses her henceforth as "Miss Adair." The
title seems strange and unfamiliar for a time, but soon she
responds to it as readily as though indeed her own.

She gives a
sigh of enjoyment when she is seated beside Mrs. Adair in a
first-class carriage on the train, with wraps, hot water bottles, a
basket of grapes, and plenty of illustrated papers. This is life
worth living indeed, to recline amid luxurious cushions, and have
Mrs. Adair's footman and the guard saluting at the door every now
and then, and poor people on the platform looking with interest at
their magnificence.

A few hours
later, and Pansy is for the first time in London; but there is no
need for her to feel weary and bewildered and strange amid the
turmoil, for a carriage from Silverbeach Manor is waiting at the
junction. They drive at their ease down into Surrey, where
Silverbeach Manor stands -- a picturesque and much-admired
residence near the banks of the Thames at its loveliest point.

The Manor is
very old. Some say it was built in the reign of Queen Anne. Mr.
Adair restored it, but the architect managed to retain its
old-world look. Pansy is enraptured with the avenue of chestnut
trees, stately even in the darkening days, with the thick yew
shrubbery, the quaint corridors, the valuable pictures, and the
modern comfort and elegance which Mrs. Adair prizes more than the
antiques. Pansy feels quite a heroine of romance as she wanders
amid the exotic plants, and puts on her first evening dress from a
London West End establishment.

But there are
crumpled rose leaves even amid her enchantment. She is not quite at
her ease in the matter of table etiquette, and meals are for her
somewhat spoilt by the necessity of watching Mrs. Adair, that in
all points she may follow her movements, and a notion that the
servants are conscious of her bewilderment and awkwardness. Then
Mrs. Adair thinks it ridiculous of her to drink nothing but water.
Pansy has always been a teetotaller, but does not like to run
counter to the opinions of her patroness. Fortunately, a neighbour
reminds Mrs. Adair that water drinking has become quite
fashionable, and so Pansy is permitted to please herself in this
matter.

The first
Sunday at Silverbeach is a new experience. Sunday school at
Polesheaton began at a quarter to ten, but here they are
breakfasting at that hour, and as Mrs. Adair has a headache and
does not feel fit for church, Pansy has to stay in and read to her
an empty sort of novel which her conscience pronounces far from
Sunday reading. There is an elaborate lunch to which several people
drop in, then music (not wholly sacred), extensive criticism of
mutual friends not present, afternoon tea, and a late dinner,
during which the church bells ring in the distance, calling them to
the evening service in vain.

Despite Cyril
Langdale's company, Pansy feels it is a miserable sort of Sabbath,
and her thoughts go wistfully to the familiar place of worship, the
Sunday school, and tender-eyed Aunt Temperance.

Next morning
she says, falteringly, to Mrs. Adair, "I have not sent a line to
Aunt Temperance to let her know we got here safely. May I not write
one letter -- only one -- to ease her mind, Mrs. Adair?"

"Never ask me
that question again," is the reply, with a touch of the irritable
temper well known at Silverbeach. "Since you wish to ease Miss
Piper's mind, you may write one letter -- it must be the first and
last."

So Pansy
betakes herself to her dainty desk of inlaid mother-of-pearl, and
on thick, perfumed paper, with monogram and crest, she writes as
follows to Miss Piper:

My own dearest
Auntie,

You must
not think that I have forgotten you, for I
never,
never
shall as long as I live; but we have been so
busy at Silverbeach -- shopping all the morning and visitors all
the afternoon, and Mrs. Adair likes me to play or read aloud when
she is alone in the evening. I get very little time to myself, but
I am not really to begin my studies till we are settled abroad for
the winter. This is a most splendid house, a far grander place than
The Grange, and the rooms are perfectly lovely. Some of the
paintings here cost thousands of pounds, they say.

I wish you
could see the blue satin curtains in the drawing room, side by side
with draperies of the most beautiful old lace. But I think you
would like even better to see the peacocks and the countless
foreign birds. and rare, expensive pets. A boy is kept on purpose
to feed them twice a day. I think, if I had a place like this, I
should never want to leave it; but Mrs. Adair says she spent the
first year of her married life here, and it rained nearly all that
year, and somehow I think she does not care much about
Silverbeach.

People say her
husband was rather a cross old man. All he cared about was to get
more money. Mr. Langdale, a friend of Mrs. Adair's, is teaching me
to draw. He is so kind and patient, but I never shall care as much
about it as about my violin, and I am to have the most expensive
training that can be procured. Mrs. Adair does not mind how much
she spends on me. She likes to have me with her a great deal, and
says she expects me to be quite a success in society and repay her
for all her trouble.

You may
be sure I am enjoying my life here very much. I have all kinds of
new dresses, and shoes for every occasion, and I am actually to
learn to ride! It seems like a dream. Sometimes I think I shall
wake and find that I am only Pansy Piper in poor old Polesheaton.
Wouldn't it be dreadful to have such an awakening now!
I do
enjoy beautiful things, and Mrs. Adair says
I was never meant to be hidden away in Polesheaton, teaching music
to stupid children, and washing and turning my old dresses. Give
Deb my love. I hope you find her a great help. Tell Deb there are
seven housemaids here. How she would open her eyes to see the
servants' hall! I am sorry to say, my darling Aunt Temperance, that
Mrs. Adair says I am not to write again -- at any rate, for the
present. But mind you let me know directly should you ever be ill,
and be sure, wherever I am, or whatever may happen, I remain for
ever,

Your own
fondly loving niece,

Pansy
Adair.

A Dream Dispelled

THREE years
have run their changeful course since Pansy signed herself Miss
Piper's "fondly loving niece" -- three years that have left their
mark upon all concerned in our story. It is the boating season, and
Silverbeach Manor is a scene of free and incessant festivity. The
queen of every picnic, excursion, and river jaunt is the beautiful
Miss Adair. Scarcely could Pansy be recognized now in the
stylish-looking young lady who is Mrs. Adair's pet and pride, who
can sing to her violin in French, German, and Italian; sketch and
paint in good amateur fashion; ride and drive; and waltz to the
satisfaction of a West End teacher.

Pansy has more
dresses in a season now than many a girl gets in the course of two
years; her food, her clothes are of the choicest; and she can read
romances half the day when tired of active pleasure. But there is a
look sometimes upon the young face that scarcely betokens perfect
peace, real happiness and content.

Mrs. Adair
looks as though she is starting to age, and Pansy often wonders how
old she is, and if her weakness and languor mean more than put on
for effect. But she makes plans for many a year to come, and speaks
of journeys abroad nine and ten winters ahead, and smilingly
accepts the contradictions of her visitors when she talks about
growing old.

Cyril Langdale
is still a bachelor, and being a neighbour of Mrs. Adair's is often
at Silverbeach Manor where he is welcomed by the hostess for his
entertaining art gossip and familiarity with the fashionable world
she loves.

Mrs. Adair has
no relations of her own. Her husband had disagreed with his only
near connection, a cousin, because he declined entering into
accounts on Sunday -- a day that always hung heavily on the
merchant's hands. He was one of Mr. Adair's bookkeepers, and was in
consequence dismissed, greatly for his benefit, for he went abroad
and traded on his own account, and was abundantly prospered. Being
thus without family ties, Mrs. Adair thinks it more than probable
she may bequeath Silverbeach to her adopted child, in that remote
period when she may be called upon to part with it herself. More
than once she has hinted to Pansy that dutiful attention to her
wishes may secure this most comfortable inheritance.