Silverbeach Manor (6 page)

What
have the three years brought within Polesheaton, Miss Temperance
Piper, and the little general shop? It would be useless to ask
Pansy, for she knows not. Whether she
cares
or not only her secret heart can tell. The life in the
village shop seems to her now like a long-past dream, and though
her aunt, in reply to her letter, sent a few tender lines of love
and blessing, Pansy dared not offend Mrs. Adair by continuing the
correspondence, so that aunt and niece have drifted apart surely
and utterly now.

Pansy is very
much in love -- how could she fail to be, after the long teaching
and training of overdrawn and sensational love-stories upon Miss
Piper's counter? She was prepared to fall in love from the hour she
left the home of her childhood, and Cyril Langdale has continued
ever since her hero, her prince, her ideal.

"I
know
he cares about me," she
tells herself sometimes, blushing even at the thought. "He has
never spoken plainly, but his eyes have a language of their own. He
has sketched and painted me again and again, and did he not once
call me 'darling' when we were rowing in the moonlight? And does he
not hold my hand, and did he not ask me to take care of myself,
when my throat was sore, for
his
sake? I
only just caught the whisper, but I am sure those were the words he
said.

"He is so
good, so clever, so tender, so handsome -- what a happy, happy girl
I am! Mrs. Adair is fond of him, and she encourages his visits. I
know she would let us be engaged. The course of true love will run
smooth in our case. I do think I am the most fortunate girl in all
the world."

It would
seem far less romantic to Pansy if her hero proposed to her
otherwise than with his impressive dark eyes. Her heart relies
absolutely upon his devotion, and if she prays at all in these
glittering days, the name of "
Cyril"
is
that which fills her petitions.

Never while
she lives will she forget the day that scatters her fairy dream for
evermore. She is at her brightest and happiest in Mrs. Adair's
houseboat, witnessing a festive regatta on the river, when May
Damarel, a girl with whom she is very friendly, accosts her with
the exclamation, "Why, there you are, Pansy. I have wanted to get
you to myself ever so long. I have something marvellous to tell
you. Wonders will never cease. A regular old bachelor is going to
be married."

"Old Mr.
Henry?
"
asks Pansy, looking with
amusement at the endeavour of a young-looking spinster in the
company to get an elderly bachelor to explain the regatta for her
benefit. "Well, perseverance deserves success."

"No, no;
somebody we know much better, Pansy. Guess again."

"We do
not know many
old
bachelors. Do you mean
the vicar?"

"Why,
child, he is nearly ninety. The one I mean is not really
old,
but people have expected him to marry for
years, and have grown accustomed to looking upon him now as a
confirmed bachelor."

The thought
flashed across Pansy's mind that Cyril Langdale may have hinted to
his friends that he has some hope and idea of marrying. She blushes
deeply, and tells May she is no good at guessing, while little
throbs of trembling joy awake new sweetness within her heart.

"Well, I
mean Cyril Langdale. Who would have thought of
his
getting engaged? Can you guess the lady, I
wonder? "

Pansy thinks
she can, but only leans against the flower-wreathed pillar of the
boat, and looks smilingly out to the sunny waters.

"Of
course it is that American widow, Mrs. Tredder. I suppose she is
the handsomest woman on the river today, and you know he worships
beauty. Then they say her husband was almost a millionaire. Mother
says she has never seen more valuable diamonds than Mrs. Tredder's.
It is a fortunate marriage for
him,
for
people say his tastes are very expensive. You have seen Mrs.
Tredder, have you not, Pansy?"

"Yes ... we
saw her at his studio one Sunday," answers Pansy slowly, who was
deeply struck at the time by the widow's wonderful beauty, but had
not the slightest notion that Cyril Langdale was paying his homage
in that direction. "I think he would have told us," she says, with
a face that has lost its roses. "He never mentioned Mrs. Tredder
much. I believe you are making a mistake."

"Am I? Why,
they are always together in London, and she is ever so proud of his
genius. He is painting her for next year's Royal Academy. Why,
speak of an angel -- there they are, both of them, in Sir Patrick
Wynn's gondola! How lovely she looks, leaning back against the
crimson cushions! Isn't the gondolier handsome, Pansy -- an ideal
Venetian? I do wish we had a gondola."

"How hot it
is! The sun makes my head ache," says Pansy, moving away from her
friend and shading her eyes with her hand.

***

It is true that
the beautiful widow, with her diamonds and dividends, has been
successfully sought by the beauty-loving artist, and that he is
complacently conscious of victory where many another has met with
repulse. At the same time, his conscience is not wholly easy
concerning Pansy Adair, with whom he has undoubtedly flirted, and
whom he might have seriously fancied if he could be certain her
patroness would endow her with Silverbeach Manor and her wealth. He
glances at Mrs. Adair's houseboat, and is rather relieved to notice
the smiling nod with which Pansy responds to his salutation, and to
hear her laughter ring across to the gondola as she eats
strawberries and cream in the midst of a light-hearted throng.

"Permit
me to congratulate you, Mr. Langdale, and to wish you happiness,"
Pansy says, looking into his face when, later on, he brings
his
fiancée
on board the
houseboat.

Mrs. Tredder
dazzles all around by her perfect costume and bewitching face, and
is very friendly to Pansy and invites her to visit her in Hyde
Park. Langdale becomes quite at his ease, so successful a curtain
is Pansy's pride; but the girl feels today that her very heart is
broken.

For a time her
health and spirits suffer considerably from the shock of this first
sharp sorrow. She cannot accuse Cyril Langdale of desertion, for he
never belonged to her openly, and has always enjoyed the character
of being quite a "lady's man", but subtle looks and tones, only
known to the two of them, undoubtedly gave her reason to believe he
cared for her in sincerity. It takes her a long, long, bitter time
to realize that he is about to become the husband of one who, till
almost recently, was a stranger. She is realizing that even with
money to spend and spare, and amid lives that fare sumptuously
every day, trouble, and heart-sickness, and disappointment may not
be shut out.

"I will find
rest in music," she decides, struggling against the lethargy that
steals over her, and that no tonic seems to dispel. "I have read
that there is nothing like a hobby to banish sad thoughts and make
troubled hearts content. I will live for my violin. I will put
aside my poor, lost dream of love, and be satisfied with fame. Mrs.
Adair would never let me perform professionally, but I will be the
best-known amateur violinist in society. It must be sweet, it must
be glorious to be famous. I will work hard, I will strive hard to
be great."

***

Pansy did
indeed strive hard, and became as an honoured guest in the drawing
rooms of ladies of title. Mrs. Adair is filled with pride with the
eloquent praises (and silences even more complimentary) that follow
Pansy's performances, while the society papers bestow upon her such
glowing tributes as this:

Among the brilliant throng at Lady ----'s or the Duchess of
So-and-So's, might have been seen one of the queens of London
society -- Miss Adair, of Silverbeach Manor, the talented amateur
violinist. This beautiful and gifted young lady was, as usual,
attired in the perfection of taste, and elicited the most
enthusiastic applause by her rendering alike of classical studies
and lighter
pieces
on the exquisite instrument which has been presented to her
by Mrs. Adair. We understand that this lady objects to Miss Adair's
photographs being publicly sold; otherwise the fair face and form
of one so universally admired would before this have been seen amid
the portraits of society leaders and types of beauty.

Pansy used to
read such words long ago, about ladies moving in a world that
seemed further from her then than Paradise itself. How she envied
the fashionable beauties of whom such descriptions were penned. But
now the homage is so customary that it only wearies her, and she
begins to understand that society, once the acme of her ambition,
is apt to prove, to those who have too much of it, a little
monotonous and tiresome.

Surely the
zenith of Pansy's musical glory is reached when a special request
reaches Silverbeach that she will play before Royalty, and Mrs.
Adair in her excitement sends to Paris for a dress for her adopted
child, who is robed for the occasion in white and silver brocade,
draped with rare old lace, the flowers at her shoulder being the
choicest orchids.

Looking at
herself in the tall mirror before her departure, Pansy gives no
thought to the elderly figure of her aunt, baking, washing, sewing
hour by hour in a dingy village shop, tireless, often sleepless,
that a little orphan girl might be comfortably fed and clad. She
shines resplendent before Royalty, and excels herself as to her
playing, till the aristocratic hearers are enraptured, and a
certain gracious Princess speaks to her kindly and admiringly, and
gives her a photograph of herself with her autograph in a charming
frame.

But the
excitement has proved too much for Pansy. To be famous at the cost
of one's health is glory dearly bought, and whether her musical
triumphs or her heart-trouble assist in the breaking down, she
falls ill, and many weeks elapse before the Silverbeach doctor, a
specialist as to nerves, will permit her to leave her bed for the
couch in Mrs. Adair's snuggery.

It is while
lying on her couch that vague, tender yearnings begin to stir
within her for the love that wrapped her childhood. The face that
comforted her early sorrows, smiled brighter sunlight into her
joys. She cannot forget the little gabled roof of the village shop,
the humble, old-fashioned garden, the homely, cosy kitchen. The
scene comes back before her, and instead of the cushioned lounge,
the artistic curtains about the mantel-board, the musical clock and
bronze Tunisian figures in the room where she is resting, she sees
once more Aunt Temperance putting on her glasses to sort the
letters, Deb weighing sweets and cheese with attentive face and
careful hand, and her pretty canary, once her pride and care. A
great longing seizes her to receive a letter from her aunt again,
to send them a little help, to let Aunt Temperance know and
understand she is not unforgetful, ungrateful.

"She may be
ill -- in need," says Pansy, brokenly, venturing in her privileged
convalescence to breach the long-avoided subject to Mrs. Adair.
"Aunt Temperance denied herself so much to provide for me. I have
money. May I not send her a little?"

"You may send
her a five pound note anonymously," says Mrs. Adair, yielding this
point because of the low state of Pansy's nerves; "but the
correspondence between you has ceased once and for all. Miss Piper
is no longer your aunt. You seem to forget that your name is Adair
and your home is Silverbeach Manor. You have made your choice, and
it is wrong to look back discontentedly. You have nothing more to
do with your past as long as you live. You must understand this,
Pansy, if you mean to continue my charge, my comfort, my child. I
will accept no divided affection."

So the five
pound note goes anonymously to Miss Temperance Piper, Polesheaton
Post office; and none at Silverbeach is aware that it is returned
to the Dead Letter Office with the inscription, "Gone away --
address not known."

Pansy's Predicament.

THE months that
follow are full of what Pansy Adair once looked upon in vision as
pursuits most delightful and bewitching. Mrs. Adair has some secret
notion that Cyril Langdale's marriage may have had something to do
with Pansy's indisposition, and she resolves to divert the mind of
her adopted child who has become very dear to her, by a round of
pleasure in its most brilliant aspects.