by Susan Barrie
“It’s a pity,” Mrs. Abbie observed softly, “that the master didn’t decide, to come with you today. But he always finds it difficult to tear himself away from London.”
“And yet this is a home to be proud of—a home most people would be anxious to take possession of!” Melanie offered it as her opinion.
Mrs. Abbie nodded, looking about her with a kind of half-veiled regret in her eyes. “It is,”‘ she agreed. “But I’m thankful at least that he’s got it—somewhere to come to that’s a great deal more pleasant than a flat in the West End of London. I’ve lived in London all my life, but I’m not sorry to leave it behind. And the country round about here is something to do the heart good. If only Mr. Richard would make up his mind to settle here—but he’d tell you he couldn’t live without the theatre, and plenty of human beings to study. But I know it’s because it takes a woman—and children!—to make a home, and this place will never be home to Mr. Richard unless he marries. And somehow I can’t see Mr. Richard getting married—no! I can’t!”
So she didn’t share the view of his niece concerning Sylvia Gaythorpe, Melanie could not help thinking.
“Marriage is not for everyone, and it’s far wiser to stay single unless you’re sure of the right partner.”
Melanie was inclined to agree with her, but she said, “And Mr. Trenchard has other compensations. He might even find it difficult to adapt himself to a domestic life if it conflicted with his other interests.”
“He might,” Mrs. Abbie agreed, “but I don’t think so. Not if his wife was a wise woman. Although I’ll admit he can be trying at times, and he loses his temper easily. But he’s been a good employer to me, and generous to many other people, and I’d like to think that one day...” She went to the window to draw the velvet curtains over it, and the room looked shut in, and warm, and cosy. “When I think of all the rooms in this house, and that big, sunny nursery on the first floor! ... Oh, well, we can’t plan other people’s lives for them!” and with a faint shrug of her neat, black-silk-clad shoulders, she switched off the light and they left the room with the firelight flickering pleasantly on the ceiling, and in the polished depths of the few good pieces of furniture.
In the morning Melanie was awakened by a loud purr and the thud of a heavy body landing on the eiderdown close beside her face. Mrs. Abbie stood beside the bed with a tray of early tea, and busily kneading the top of the sheet with ecstatic paws was a huge smoke-grey Persian cat with eyes like great golden lamps that were regarding her with interest.
“This is Baxter, Mr. Richard’s cat,” Mrs. Abbie introduced them. “I brought him myself from London, and he’s still looking for the master. Which reminds me, there’s a present for Miss Noel over at the gardener’s cottage, and she’d better go and claim it after breakfast.”
Melanie allowed Baxter to settle down on the eiderdown while she drank her morning tea, and she wondered whether it was his habit to visit his master at this hour and in this fashion. And after breakfast she and Noel set out for the gardener’s cottage, with clear and almost warm sunlight falling from a cloudless northern sky all about them, and making the world seem very fresh and sweet after their recent incarceration in London. And when they reached the cottage, only recently tenanted by a man engaged to restore some sort of order to the gardens of the Wold House, loud yelping noises did something to prepare them for the sight of an overgrown Great Dane puppy—already almost the size of a young colt—all ears and great, fumbling feet and eyes, who was doing his best to drag the kitchen table about the floor of the kitchen, to the delight of the gardener’s two children, who had stuffed him to a stage beyond repletion with dog-biscuits.
Noel’s eyes became delightedly fastened to him, and then she let out a kind of cooing murmur and went down on her knees to gather him into her arms. He promptly responded by licking every available inch of her face, and the gardener informed her that his name, most appropriately, was Peter the Great, and that he came from some local kennels.
Noel’s delight in him was so unbounded, and so obvious, that Melanie was deeply touched by the sight of it. If this was her uncle’s method of making up to her for years of loneliness—with such a fount of affection at Peter the Great she need hardly ever be lonely again!—she thought it was a very wise method, and between them they untied him from the kitchen table, and set about returning with him to the house.
“This is one of the occasions when I feel I would like to hug Uncle Richard!” Noel exclaimed, and Melanie smiled at her understandingly.
“It’s a lovely present,” she agreed. “So long as he doesn’t chase Baxter up a tree from which it will be impossible to get him down, or chew up all the furniture, I think he’ll settle down famously.”
“Baxter!” Noel looked scornful. “I’ve always wanted a dog of my own, and now I’ve got one, and isn’t he an absolutely perfect lamb?”
“As to that,” Melanie replied, preventing the “perfect lamb” from pulling his new mistress on to her face on the gravel, “I prefer to reserve my opinion, if you don’t mind!—and hope that the house will still be intact when your uncle arrives!”
“What made him give me a big dog, instead of a small one, do you think?” Noel asked, her eyes blazing like blue stars in her delicate face. “Actually I don’t like small dogs one little bit. I like something huge to protect me!”
“Perhaps your uncle had that in mind when he chose it,” Melanie suggested, thinking what a fragile sprite she looked hanging on to the strong lead.
“In that case he’s much more understanding than I ever would have believed! Almost uncannily understanding!”
“You’ll have to let him know that you appreciate his understanding,” Melanie told her.
Noel nodded her head vigorously.
“I will—oh, I will! I think he’s sweet!” with school-girlish extravagance.
“Merely just at the present moment?”
“No,” seriously. “Probably all the time, but I’ll have to get to know him a bit more before I can be sure of it!” Which was wise, Melanie thought. Even she had not quite made up her mind about Richard Trenchard yet, and she was several years older, and had seen slightly more of him. But she suspected that he could be very sweet—if he wished! And when he wished! But there were other sides to him, and those sides had to be understood before arriving at a final judgment.
The rest of that day they spent exploring the grounds—with Peter the Great, of course! And Melanie was pleased to see that Noel responded to the keenness in the air by displaying banners of healthy-looking color in her cheeks, and being ready to consume a hearty lunch when they sat down to it. The garden of the Wold House was very much an overgrown wilderness as yet, but there were shrubberies and tree-lined walks which tempted exploration, and there was even a sedgy-looking lake from which the moorland climbed steeply on the farther side, and what had once been a boat-house on the nearer shore which was now used as a tool-shed, but might in time be restored to a boathouse. Peter the Great searched it diligently for rats, and was only dragged away from this exciting pastime with difficulty.
Melanie thought that when the spring came there would be many surprises in the shape of bulbs shooting up in the most unsuspected places, and the overgrown lawn where the sundial stood could, with a certain amount of attention, become a really beautiful lawn again. It was on a slight eminence, and overlooked all the rugged grimness of the surrounding country. There was a sheltered south terrace where it would be pleasant to lounge when the sun was warm, and in the orchard adjoining the kitchen-garden literally hundreds of daffodils must have blazed like yellow stars amongst the coarse grass in the springs of previous years, and continued in a wave down each side of the drive and down to the edges of the lake.
At tea-time, when they dragged Peter back to the house and encountered Baxter sitting in dignity in front of the library fire, a temporary diversion was created by the horrified Persian being driven to take refuge on the mantelpiece. But Melanie rescued him an
d decided that Peter could be banished to the kitchen for that one evening, in order to give Baxter an opportunity to recover from his upset.
The following week the weather remained “set fair” all the time, and they were able to go for walks over the moors, and to explore almost every dell and combe in their vicinity. Even at that season of the year the unrelenting moorland had a bleak charm which appealed to Noel as well as Melanie, and although at first the former found long walks tiring, her leg muscles strengthened more quickly than Melanie would have believed, and she certainly had the will for exercise.
She was delighted when they found tiny, pathetic specimens of wildflowers defying the encroachments of winter in sheltered hollows, and when they walked to church on Sunday morning and joined in the singing of hymns in a centuries-old edifice where the white-haired old Rector preached a splendid sermon, although there were no more than a handful of other people present. And when they walked home they saw a buzzard circling in the clear air above them, and at a secluded pool, fed by a tiny, sparkling burn, a wild pony drank and continued to drink although they moved softly near him.
And that caused Melanie to wonder whether Noel might in time like to learn to ride, and she thought she would suggest it to her employer when she saw him next. She herself had been accustomed to horses from her earliest days.
Mrs. Duplessis rang them the day after their, arrival and invited them both to lunch with her, but Melanie declined on the grounds that they had no easily available transport, and her former employer did not offer to drive over and fetch them herself. Instead, with a faint note of relief in her voice, she promised vaguely to come and see them some time, and inquired whether Melanie was settling down at the Wold House.
“Yes, thank you,” Melanie replied truthfully. “I think we’re both settling down very well.”
Mrs. Duplessis sounded mildly amused.
“And you’re not bored? You don’t find it terribly dull with such a limited amount of company?”
Melanie assured her that she did not find it dull at all, and Eve sounded a little astonished. She would have found it very difficult to accept the fact that whereas with her Melanie had certainly seen many more faces, and enjoyed more actual variety in her daily life, she had always been a little out of the picture at the White Cottage. She had never been more than an employee. But here, with only Mrs. Abbie and the housemaid, Brigid, apart from Noel, as the companions of a quiet but very orderly existence, she was the next-best-thing to being her own mistress, with no instructions from anyone—not even Richard Trenchard. And the atmosphere of the Wold House was warm and friendly. And Noel’s growing attachment to her and dependence on her made her feel that she was doing a really useful job.
After the first week the weather changed, and they were more or less confined to the house for several days. But even then they were not dull, for there were books to read, and games such as monopoly and even chess to be played, and they started conversational French lessons which were amusing. And the house was not yet in such perfect order that a certain rearrangement of the furniture in various rooms was not an improvement, and they spent a whole morning dragging chests and tables about, and altering the positions of pictures on the panelled walls. They even altered the position of the dower chest in the hall, so that it was not so much in shadow, and placed a handsome Jacobean arm-chair with a crimson cushion beside the hearth where the fire always blazed, so that it looked much more homely and inviting.
Its being so near to Christmas, too, Mrs. Abbie had thoughts of Christmas preparations, and Noel and Melanie helped stone raisins and blanch almonds, and so forth, for Christmas puddings. Melanie was quite a good cook herself—her father had always declared that she created the lightest omelette he had ever tasted, and he had travelled extensively in his day, particularly on the Continent. And Mrs. Abbie allowed her to test out a few recipes in her cookery book, which Noel, with her increasing appetite, sampled immediately they came out of the oven.
Brigid, the housemaid, was a cheerful Irish girl who sang sentimental Irish ballads about the house. She was a great believer in what she called “elevenses,” and the teapot always on the hob. She also predicted great things from the tea-leaves which lay at the bottoms of their cups, and told Melanie that in her future there were great heights to be scaled, and that a certain amount of danger was in store for her. And there were two men—and one woman!—who could make or mar her life.
She looked dreamily at Melanie as she spoke, as if she was plainly visualizing the dangers. And then she picked up Noel’s cup and told her that there were great heights in her future, too, and that they were tall enough to pierce the clouds and had snow upon them. And she cautioned her against being reckless, and told her that she would marry a dark man and would live with him amongst the snows.
“And what about Miss Brooks?” Noel asked excitedly—thrilled to think that she would marry some day. “Isn’t she going to marry anyone? Which of the two men you’ve mentioned is she likely to have?”
Brigid heaved a deep sigh, and strove to sort out the tangle of the tea-leaves.
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “They’re both dark. It could be either of them.”
“Get along with you, Brigid!” Mrs. Abbie exclaimed impatiently. “A saucepan’s boiling over, and there’s something burning in the oven, and you’d better see what it is. This fortune-telling is the purest nonsense.”
“All the same,” Noel slid her hand into Melanie’s arm and they went back to the library, where they had begun that morning to catalogue the books on the shelves. “I think it’s rather exciting—being told there are two men who will influence your life! After all, one of them’s bound to be nice!”
Melanie smiled at her and humored her to the extent of replying, “If not, I’ll just have to put up with the one who isn’t nice! But you’re not being allowed any choice, young woman. Your future is sealed!”
CHAPTER NINE
A WEEK before Christmas—with no news of the coming of the master of the place—angry snow clouds piled up in the north, and the first flakes fell softly down upon the Wold House.
Noel had developed one of her irritating little colds, and it was Melanie who found herself forced to exercise Peter the Great, who seemed to be approaching the size of a full-grown hound with leaps and bounds. Baxter simply detested him, and retreated to the safety of trees and, if he was within doors, the every-handy mantelpiece, when Peter hove, with his lolloping gait, into view. Melanie was sure he took a delight in tormenting the handsome Persian, who, after all, was the master’s special pet, and should have been allowed a greater peace. She and Peter—despite her secret preference for Baxter, who had become devoted to her eiderdown—were the best of friends, however, and it was no hardship to her to go forth into inclement weather to ensure him exercise.
Even snow—which had always fascinated her—did not deter her. The garden of the Wold House was a wilderness of white, and beautiful beyond words, and morning and evening she set out to trample the virginal waste with Peter. He dragged her along like an unwieldy ship towing a slightly unwilling tug, and by the time she had made the complete circuit of the grounds, still clinging to his leash, her cheeks were glowing and scarlet with exercise, and her eyes frequently bubbling over with laughter. She wore an old raincoat and hood, or a scarf tied down over her dark curls and even her lips glowed-red as petunias, as if heavily lip-sticked, which at that hour of the day they seldom were.
One evening, just after tea, when the last of the light was dying out of the sky, and objects were curiously magnified as well as purified by the snow glare, Peter was proving particularly intractable and inconsiderate. Melanie stumbled along the lane just outside the drive gates and thought that the small mountain in front of her was an enormous drift. But just as she dragged Peter to a standstill, and prevented herself from falling into it, a voice, calm and clear on the still air, spoke to her, and she stared in the utmost surprise.
“Good evening, M
iss Brooks,” said the voice. “It’s a little late for you to be out, isn’t it?—even accompanied by that young elephant!”
“Mr. Trenchard!” Melanie gasped, and was so surprised that Peter managed to escape with his lead and tumbled into the car, licking the newcomer’s face as if he adored him.
“That’s enough of that, thank you very much!” Richard protested at last, and held the dog down firmly in order to look upwards at Melanie. Her oval face had a kind of ethereal glow in the white light, and her eyes were unnaturally large and as brilliant as starshine. He could see the little white puffs of expelled breath clinging round her mouth, and her voice sounded breathless and excited.
“We didn’t expect you! ... Why didn’t you let us know?”
“Come inside,” he ordered, and opened the car door for her, banishing Peter to the back seat. “Because I thought I would give you a surprise, and because I only made up my mind very suddenly this morning to leave London at all.” He placed a fur-lined rug over her knees, tucking it in to exclude the draughts, and she looked up at him in the gloom of the comfortable, low-slung saloon and thought that his eyes were smiling at her in the way she preferred them to smile, and that the pleasant smell of his tobacco was rather stronger than usual. “Where’s Noel?” he asked. “Why isn’t she with you? Peter is her dog, and it’s no time of day for you to be wandering out alone in this weather.”
“Noel’s got a cold.”
“Is Noel always afflicted with colds?” he demanded.
“No; and this time it’s only a slight one—in fact, her general health is very much better—but Peter has to be taken for his evening walk.”