Silverbeach Manor (16 page)

"But all the
time," says Temperance Piper in quavering tones, "all the time,
Deb, the good Lord was watching over us. Praise to His name, He
never forsook us."

"Never
mind the past, aunt darling," cries Pansy, half laughing, half
weeping. "I am Pansy
Piper
again now --
your own child come back to care for you and help you. The debt I
owe Deb I can never repay, but she will give me some share in
tending you now. We will all do our best together, and we will all
make you happy, Aunt Temperance. So forget the past, and forgive my
pride, my ungrateful selfishness so long."

Starlight and Chimes

PANSY knows
that the last place in the world where she would choose to live in
her altered circumstances is the neighbourhood that had recently
witnessed her pomp and splendour. However, the very first music
pupils she secures are the children of the manager of the
Wilberforce Hotel, where the best rooms were once at her disposal,
and where she fared sumptuously every day. But Deb's husband, David
Rumsay, has made a small connection in Firlands as jobbing
gardener, and for the sake of the young couple Pansy decides to
seek for teaching here, meanwhile selling to the Firlands' jeweller
some trinkets which are absolutely her own, Mrs. Adair having given
them to her many years ago. They bring her enough to keep them
going with care for a while, and her applications at the music shop
result in several pupils, for Firlands is certainly a growing
neighbourhood.

Pansy
persuades the Rumsays to rent out the little house, as their
landlady is giving it up. She and her Aunt Temperance become their
lodgers, and Deb takes infinite pride in her little kitchen, and in
the pretty curtains and touches which Pansy bestows here and
there.

"
I dare say they remind her of her own fine
house that she gave up for sake of the old lady," says David
Rumsay, seeing Pansy watering the geraniums in the window. "There's
nothing like a flower to comfort folks when they're down-hearted. I
wonder who's got the Manor now?"

"Some
stranger," says Deb, a little regretfully. "I wish Miss Pansy could
have kept it, and kept poor mistress too. But she's chosen right,
Dave, for she'd soon have had a broken heart upon her conscience.
Don't mistress look twenty years younger than she did before Miss
Pansy came back to her? "

"Ay, that she
do, Deb. The old lady's face puts me in mind of a picture I saw up
in London once of old Simeon in the New Testament when he said as
how he felt he could depart in peace now that he had seen
Jesus."

"Mistress isn't going to
depart,
though," says Deb. "Miss Pansy's the best medicine
she
could have. It's quite wonderful to see what
a change has come over mistress. Dave, it's an
answer
to prayer.
I couldn't tell you how many times I've
heard her a-pleading and sobbing for her child to come to her
before she passed away from earth. It didn't seem as if that prayer
were ever going to be heard, but you see the answer has come at
last."

"
Ah, that minds me of what the minister said at
last night's prayer meeting --
'Delay is not
denial'.
There's no doubt about it, wife, ours is a
prayer-hearing God, and there's never a humble cry poured out
before Him as goes up in vain."

"I'm a little
anxious, though, about Miss Pansy," says Deb, confidentially. "She
looks too white to be altogether well. And sometimes what she plays
on her violin does seem to sound so sad."

"Violins
is
mournful," asserts her
husband. "They always sounds to me a-weeping and a-wailing. Now, I
knows where a concertina could be picked up cheap, if Miss Pansy
wanted something more lively. And there's a music book along with
it, with 'Bay of Biscay', and 'Toll for the Brave', and such like
tunes as those."

Deb
shakes her head. "It isn't the
violin
as
is sorrowful, Dave, dear. I'm thinking it's the heart as is making
the music. I wonder if Miss Pansy is fretting after that beautiful
place that don't belong to her now."

"She'll be
better after a bit," says Rumsay. "Folks as has been wallowing in
the lap of luxury for years and years must feel it a bit strange
when they begins to earn their living. But Miss Pansy is a brave
sort, Deb, and she's made her choice, and she'll abide by it
without whining and fretting. One of these days she'll have a young
man of her own, and they'll be as happy together as crickets, bless
you!"

"I don't
know about crickets," says Deb, laughing "but if they are as happy
as
we
are, Dave, I shall be so thankful.
I don't like to see Miss Pansy work so hard, and she don't eat no
more than a bird. It's no use trying to look ahead, but I'd rejoice
to think she'd get as good a husband to look after her as sits
taking his supper in this kitchen."

***

"I hope you'll
find a sweetheart one of these days, Miss Pansy," says Deb, openly,
one afternoon when Pansy is ironing her collars in the kitchen.
"You don't know how nice it is to have somebody to tell all your
bothers to, like I tell Dave. I never had anybody rightfully
belonging to me till Dave came working in the hospital grounds, and
one day he up and asked me to keep company. Now I've got the best
man in all the world for my own. Don't he play the accordion
beautiful, Miss Pansy?"

Pansy assents
with a smile. "There now, Deb, I thought I had forgotten how to
manage an iron properly, but I am getting quite clever again."

"I wish you
would let me do them, Miss Pansy."

"No, Deb, you
never get rest. I never saw anyone get through as much in the day
as you do. Let the iron alone. It is time for you to see to your
husband's tea, I know."

"I hope you'll
be getting your good man's tea some day, Miss Pansy. Wouldn't it be
nice for you to have a little house of your own, and Miss Piper
living along with you? Dave will tend your garden and I'll do your
washing for nothing when you get married, miss."

"That will
never be, Deb. I shall always be Pansy Piper now," says the girl
quietly, but a look of pain is shadowing her eyes. She accepts her
lot. She is not surprised that Marlow has agreed to her letter
without word or sign, but life without him seems very lonely at
times, and she has to cure these times of depression by doing
something helpful for her aunt or Deb. She has proved that there is
no remedy for "the blues" like helpfulness, and in ministry to
others she tries to forget that the price of the aged lady's
gladness has not been Silverbeach alone, but a possession far
dearer than money or lands.

***

As the days go
on, Pansy in contrite devotion to her aunt, in sweet patience and
restful thanksgiving, in the sense of an answered prayer for pardon
and daily help, is hard at work teaching all around Firlands. She
sometimes takes part with her violin in concerts at the Town Hall,
and earning more applause than remuneration, for she can only
summon courage to name a very modest price. In the winter she is
often engaged by neighbouring families to perform at their parties
or to play dance music. In this way the little household can manage
to keep the wolf from the door.

The Sothams
are frequent visitors, and many a drive Pansy gets with her aunt to
the farm, calling in sometimes at the old shop that was once her
home, and gazing from outside at the new-born glories of The
Grange, which has now been let to a rich family of the name of
Livett. One day Martha Sotham is in great excitement, for Mrs.
Livett, driving over to the farm to leave an order, happened to
mention she was about to give a dancing party, and it was "Most
tiresome that the Firlands band happened to be already engaged"
that particular evening.

"Of
course I put in a word for
you,
Pansy,
dear," says Martha. "You made us promise to keep things close about
your having been so rich and quite one of the quality, so I said
nothing about all
that.
But I told Mrs.
Livett how splendidly you play, and how you've played at a number
of Firlands parties, and she'll give you a guinea and a ride there
and back if you'll play for her dance, and also do some
accompaniments."

Pansy shrinks
a little from the notion of going to The Grange, but that guinea
will buy Aunt Temperance the winter cloak she is requiring.
Scolding herself for foolish sentiment and pride, she thanks Martha
and writes Mrs. Livett a promise for the evening.

"I only
wish I were
you"
cries her friend.
"I
should
like to get a sight of the
dresses. Mrs. Livett always goes to a Court dressmaker, they say,
and Miss Idina is always so prettily dressed. And then the supper.
I believe when they have a dance at The Grange the supper comes
down from London! And I've heard tell the greenhouses are all hung
with lanterns, and they have beautiful fairy lamps among the ferns.
But there, Pansy, I forgot it is only what
you
have been used to all these years. Oh, my dear, my dear, what
it must have cost you to give up that beautiful Silverbeach! Are
you not often just a little sorry in your heart that you acted as
you did, Pansy, dear?"

Pansy says, "I
am unspeakably glad and thankful God helped me to be true to my
conscience at last."

Pansy has
plenty of time for quiet meditation during the drive to
Polesheaton. The carriage is rather a shabby concern, for younger
flymen have superseded the old driver who is a neighbour of
Rumsay's, and Pansy wanted him to have the benefit of the job. He
gets her punctually to the cheerful-looking Grange where fair
ladies and gallant swains are making a bright picture as they move
hither and thither in festive attire.

As Pansy takes
her seat upon the music stool she remembers Mrs. Adair, and how
beneath that roof she put on her first grand tea gown and read
admiration in the eyes of Cyril Langdale. What changes have come to
pass since then. She has been raised to splendour since those days,
and she has fallen again to poverty. Poor Mrs. Adair is beyond the
voices and scenes of earth, and new tenants are at The Grange, and
the whole place blazes with modern brilliance and elegance.

"A little
faster, if you please," Miss Livett tells her, pausing beside her
for an instant. Pansy's thoughts, that, as ever, have flowed on
till they centred round her poet-lover, have caused her music to
slacken somewhat. She prides herself on keeping good time, and
tries to shake off remembrance, but the place is full of
associations, and a painful headache makes her long for the evening
to be over.

As usual,
several guests request to be introduced to the aristocratic-looking
girl in black, that they may ask her to dance, but Mrs. Livett
says, "Oh, that is only Miss Piper, the person hired to play," and
she who, in similar scenes was once queen-rose of all, is thankful
when the piano is in a quiet, retired corner, and she can escape
public notice. Tonight, she has to play several accompaniments,
while various ladies and gentlemen sing; and by and by her heart
seems almost to stand still when she hears Mrs. Livett say, "Now,
Mr. Holme -- where is Mr. Holme? He has buried himself in the
library hitherto. Come, Mr. Holme, you must give us a song. What
was that lovely thing we heard you try at the Hudsons? Idina, I am
sure you can find something for Mr. Holme to sing."

He takes a
piece from the smiling daughter of the house, on behalf of whose
prospects these dances are given, and advances towards the piano.
He sees a quiet figure in black, and bows politely.

"Might I
trouble you?" he asks, opening the sheet.

The next
moment their eyes meet, and the whole room swims round to Pansy's
vision, and she clutches feebly at the piano.

"How very
tiresome!" says Mrs. Livett, when the tumult has subsided and
strong arms have borne Pansy to another room. "There is no
depending upon these people, my dear," she remarks to a friend. "I
gave most liberal terms for this young person's services, and she
must go and faint away before the evening is half over. Whatever
are the young people to do now? They were just wanting another
waltz."

"I should not
think your musician would expect full terms under the
circumstances," says the other lady, consolingly.

Idina, who is
young and romantic, and detected the light of recognition in those
eyes that met just now, comes in to tell her mother that Pansy is
better, and is extremely sorry to cause inconvenience, but feels
she cannot return to the room.

"I have had
her fly sent for," says Idina, "and Mr. Holme is waiting outside in
the street. I think he means to take her home."

"How very
improper! I am astonished," begins Mrs. Livett.

But her
daughter says softly, "Mamma, I think they know one another.
Somebody told us, you remember, that Marlow Holme used to be
engaged. Perhaps she is
the one.
I am
going to strike up a waltz, and I mean to have a thorough practice
of dance music tonight. ... Yes, you may come and turn over." This
to a devoted satellite, who hovers faithfully round the fair
Idina.

Pansy goes
trembling from the lighted Grange into the cold, lonely street, and
finds her hand laid with infinite tenderness on the arm of Marlow
Holme. Before she can protest, he has lifted her into the Firlands
fly, and seated himself beside her.