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.
Chapter 5
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.
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 t
he 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 trium
phs 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."
Silverbeach Manor Page 4