The Rectory at Britton-Garnett was one of those picturesque,
tempting-looking, old cottage-like houses which, seen in summer by a
passer-by, embowered in greenery and roses, remain in the memory as a
sort of little earthly paradise. And its inhabitants, who loved it well
in spite of its imperfections, would have accepted the verdict without
much protest.
"It is a sweet little place," Mrs Meredon would say, "and for rich
people it might really be made almost perfect. But with these old
houses, you see, there seems always something that wants doing or
repairing. The roof is in a very bad state, and we are sometimes very
much afraid that there is dry-rot in the old wainscoting."
But the roof had to be patched up, and the incipient dry-rot had to be
left to itself. Mr Meredon was far too poor to spend a shilling or
even a sixpence that he could possibly help; and as the house was his
own private property,--for what had been the Rectory was a very small
house in the village, quite out of the question as the abode of a large
family,--there was no one to appeal to for necessary repairs, as is
usually the case. The Rectory proper was, in point of fact, large
enough for the living, which was a very small one. Long ago now, when
the Meredons first came there, shortly after their marriage, it had been
with the idea that Britton-Garnett was but the stepping-stone to better
things. But years had gone on without the better things coming, and now
for some considerable time past the Rector had left off hoping that they
ever would, or that he could be able conscientiously to accept them
should they do so. For a terrible misfortune had come over him,
literally to darken his life. He had grown almost totally blind.
It had been softened to some extent by a very slow and gradual approach.
The sufferer himself, and his wife and elder children, had had time to
prepare for it, and to make their account with it. There was even now a
good hope that, with great care and prudence, the glimmering of sight
that remained to him might be preserved; that the disease had, so to
speak, done its worst. But adieu to all prospects of a more active
career, of the wide-spread usefulness and distinction Mr Meredon had
sometimes dreamt of, of "the better things," in the practical sense
even, that he had hoped for, when he and his light-hearted and talented
but portionless young bride had, like so many thousands of others in
fact and fiction, "so very imprudently married." It was even harder in
some ways than if the poor man had become completely blind, for then
there would have been nothing more to fear, no use in precautions or
care.
"Sometimes I could wish it had been so," he once confessed to his wife.
"I don't know but that it would have been easier for you all."
"Easier for _you_, perhaps, dear Basil," said his wife. "But for us--oh
no! Think what it would be for you not to know the children's faces as
they grow up, not to--"
"The loss would be mine in all that," interrupted Mr Meredon.
"But, papa dear, it would be _much_ more trouble for us if we had always
to trot about with you, if you couldn't go anywhere alone. We should
have to get a little dog for you--or else I should have to leave off my
lessons and my music and everything to go everywhere with you. No, you
are a very selfish old man to wish to be quite blind," said Claudia
gaily. "I like you much better as you are."
"I should not see how thin your mother's face is growing. I can see
that. The grey hairs--if they are coming--I can't see as it is."
"Nor can I--for the very good reason that there are none to see,"
Claudia replied.
There were several children--all younger, considerably younger than
Claudia, and the two next her were girls. So for the moment the family
cares were not so heavy as in the future they would assuredly be, when
the little boys' schooling would have to be thought of, and college, or
starting them in the world, beyond that again. Mr Meredon was the
younger son of a large family. All that he could hope for had been done
for him, and the seniors of his family were not rich men for their
position.
"There is only Aunt Mildred," he said more than once to his wife: "she
is alone now, and she used to be fond of me."
"Till you married," said Mrs Meredon. "And--it is not exactly as if
her money was Meredon money. She only has it for life, has she not?"
"Yes, only for her life; and she has, by her husband's instructions, to
keep up the place in such perfect order,--besides its being temporarily
rather heavily burdened,--that she is really not very rich in ready
money. General Osbert, the next owner, will be better off than she.
Still, if she could see us, she might do something for the children.
Anything would be something--even helping Claudia's education."
"That would be almost the best help she could give us," said Mrs
Meredon, eagerly. "Claudia is, I feel almost certain, unusually clever,
and--you must not be vexed, Basil--an idea has struck me, her and me I
should say, which would make things easier in the future. If Claudia
could have the chance of some really first-rate teaching for a couple of
years or so, she would then be eighteen, and she might turn her
knowledge to account."
"You mean by becoming a governess?" said Mr Meredon. "I doubt if Aunt
Mildred would give any help towards such an end as that."
"No, I don't mean a governess in the ordinary way. But in the first
place she could teach Lalage and Alix, and the boys too for some time to
come. And besides that, I quite think she could have other pupils.
Mrs Carteret has been speaking to me about her three girls--they are
quite little still, you know, but in a year or two she will have to
arrange something. Of course they are not the sort of people to send
their girls to school; but, on the other hand, she is very averse to
having a resident governess, as their house is already so full. She
almost said to me that they would gladly pay as much as to a resident
governess if they could meet with any lady in the neighbourhood who
could undertake to give the children daily lessons. And Mr Fade, I
rather fancy he would be delighted to join in any plan of the kind. He
wants companionship for Sydney, and yet he would certainly never send
her to school."
"So we should have a select establishment for young ladies here," said
Mr Meredon, half amused, half incredulous. "I doubt if the Meredon
prejudices would not be even more shocked by that than if Claudia became
a governess."
"I don't think so; besides, we can't afford to consider that. Our
circumstances are very peculiar. We must do what we can for ourselves.
And Claudia is a very exceptional girl."
"Yes, I allow that. But would such a scheme not entail too much fatigue
and work for her? She will be very young even at eighteen. And no
teacher can teach everything."
"No; but if it were arranged, Claudia and I are sure that both the
Carterets and Mr Fade would join to have one or two masters once a week
or so from Curwen. Claudia could superintend the preparation for them,
and I, of course, would give what help I could if it were in this house.
But most likely Mrs Carteret would wish the lessons to be there.
There would be an advantage in that, for it would leave me more time for
reading and writing with you."
Mr Meredon was silent for a little.
"That would be a very great comfort," he said at last, "and possibly
even more. I can't bear to take up your time just now, when you have
all the teaching to do; but if you were freer I might perhaps go on with
some of the work I had in hand when my eyes first got so bad. I could
dictate to you," and Mr Meredon looked up eagerly.
But the brighter expression soon faded.
"I am afraid," he said, "we are reckoning on our chickens not only
before they are hatched, but before we have got any eggs! In the first
place, Mrs Carteret may not think Claudia fit for it. No man is a
prophet in his own country--and you see they have known her since she
was a baby."
Mrs Meredon smiled.
"I will ask Mrs Carteret about it," she said.
"And then the two years' schooling for her. Where is that to come
from?" he asked.
"Ah! that _is_ the question. Well, Basil, I love our independence as
much as you do, but with this prospect of steady and remunerative
employment for her, I think we should swallow our false pride,--it
surely would be false pride in such a case,--and ask Lady Mildred to
help us. It would not be asking much, or burdening her for long."
"I will think it over," Mr Meredon replied, "and you perhaps had better
sound Mrs Carteret, and, if you like, Mr Fade also."
Perhaps Mrs Meredon had already done so. Be that as it may, the
results were satisfactory. And a few days later the letter on which
hung so many hopes was written by his wife to Mr Meredon's dictation.
"And now," she said wisely, "we have done what we could. Let us try in
the mean time to put the matter off our minds."
Their patience, however, was not so taxed as often happens in such
cases. Nor was the answer what they had expected. How seldom, how
strangely seldom _are_ expectations realised! If ever in the long run
things turn out as we have anticipated, the details of their fulfilment
are so curiously unlike what we had pictured that we scarcely recognise
them. Mrs Meredon and Claudia, the blind father too probably, had lain
awake many an hour reading in imagination Lady Mildred's reply. Would
it be curt and cold, at once negativing all hopes, or condescendingly
benevolent, or simply kind and kinswomanlike? The last, after so many
years, and after too her expressed disapproval of her nephew's marriage,
was scarcely to be hoped for. It was none of all these, for in the
shape of a letter her answer never came at all.
But one late August afternoon, about a month before the rainy Saturday
when Charlotte and Gervais Waldron sat discussing the expected "new
girl" at Miss Lloyd's, the nameless heiress of Silverthorns, the old fly
from Welby, the Britton-Garnett railway station, turned in at the
Rectory gate and slowly crawled up the drive, already slushy with early
autumn rains and want of rolling,--for carriage wheels were rare at the
Meredons'--and in answer to the scared little maid's information that
"missus was at home," a tall, upright old lady in deep mourning
descended, and was ushered into the drawing-room. It was empty. She
had time to look about her--to note the shabby furniture, the scrupulous
care with which the carpet, faded though it was, was covered to protect
it from the sun, the darned curtains looped up so as to show to the best
advantage, the one real ornament of the room, a lovely nosegay of roses,
freshly cut and fragrant, placed so as to make a bright spot where most
wanted.
"Yes," she decided, "there has been no exaggeration. They are very
poor, but they are not degraded by it. They have kept up their
self-respect."
But she was scarcely prepared for the vision that met her eyes when, an
instant later, the door opening made her turn round.
It was Claudia--Claudia in a little washed-out cotton frock, which might
once have been blue, with snowy collar and cuffs, and a rosebud at her
throat, her lovely hair fluttering over her forehead, her hazel eyes
raised in half-perplexed inquiry,--Claudia, the most exquisite picture
of girlhood that Lady Mildred's gaze had ever rested on.
She half started forward to meet the child; but Claudia was absorbed in
her commission, and did not notice it.
"Mamma is very sorry," she began, "she--she has been busy writing for
papa. She will be here in a moment. Can you kindly tell me your name--
and is there anything I can say to mamma for you?"
"My dear, yes. Tell her not to hurry; I can wait. Tell her and your
father that I am Aunt Mildred, and that I have come to spend the day
with them if they will have me. And before you run away, can you not
kiss your old aunt?"
"Of course, of course. I had no idea it was you, dear aunt," said
Claudia. "How strange of me not to guess, and we so often speak of
you!"
"You knew that your mother, or perhaps I should say your father, wrote
to me lately?" asked Lady Mildred.
"Yes," said Claudia simply, "I knew all about it. And oh! I am so glad
you have come. It is ever so much better than a letter."
"She is lovely and good, I feel sure, and I should imagine clever, like
her mother," thought Lady Mildred. "What a pity it seems! But they are
right--their idea is infinitely better than making a governess of such a
girl, even if she were not a Meredon."
And the result of that August day that Lady Mildred Osbert spent with
her nephew and his family was, that a fortnight later Claudia Meredon
was installed at Silverthorns.
Lady Mildred, when free from prejudice, could do things both kindly and
sensibly, though nevertheless "in her own way."
"I cannot do much for you," she said to her nephew and his wife; "but I
am heartily sorry for you,--I had no idea Basil's eyes were so bad,--and
what I can do I will. I am not so rich as is generally thought."
"That I know," Mr Meredon interrupted.
"Yes, I have always wished my own family to know it. As for the
Osberts, time enough for them to know it when I am dead. It is no love
for them that actuates me, but my determination to carry out my
husband's wishes. Thanks to this, the property will be all but
unencumbered again when it leaves my hands. But this state of things
cripples me. However, that is no one's concern but my own. Of all
things I hate gossip, so I keep my own counsel. Now as to Claudia--I
should like, I tell you frankly, to get some personal gratification out
of what I do. I have taken a great fancy to the child. Suppose you let
me have her for the two years, instead of sending her away to school--I
hate girls' schools, by the way, even the best of them. But I have made
inquiry, and I find that at Wortherham, near me, she could have
excellent teaching. There is a _sort_ of school there, a day school
only, for some of the girls of the place, which is most highly spoken
of--the principal of it, Miss Lloyd, is very capable herself, and has
first-rate teachers to help her. If Claudia attended these classes she
could live with me and cheer me up a little. I am very lonely. The two
years may see the end of me--"
"Don't say that, Aunt Mildred," Mr Meredon interrupted; "it makes me
feel as if I should have done something--written to you, or had some
communication with you before. Has it been false pride?"
"Perhaps," said Lady Mildred, bluntly. "I was not cordial about your
marriage. You know it, my dear," she added, turning to Mrs Meredon.
"But it was no ill-feeling to you personally. And as things are--well,
I see plainly that Basil could not have a better wife."
"Thank you for saying so," said Mrs Meredon simply.
"And let me say I think your plan for Claudia a delightful one."
"But I have more to explain," Lady Mildred went on. "I like doing
things in my own way. If she comes to me it must not be in the guise of
a poor relation. I won't have all the old women in Wortherham,--
dreadful radical place, that it is,--nor my county neighbours either,
for that matter, gossiping about the poverty-stricken Meredons. Every
one knows the Meredons are poor, but let us keep all details to
ourselves. Claudia must not let any one at this school know anything
about her motives for studying as hard as I am sure she will do; and she
must not overdo it. She is well advanced already, you say?"
"I hope so," said the mother. "But it is difficult to judge till one
compares her with others. In French and German I am sure she will stand
well."
"Yes, I know she could not have had a better teacher than you."
"I had unusual advantages myself certainly," said Mrs Meredon, who had
been many years in France and Germany.
Lady Mildred nodded her head without speaking. She had the greatest
belief in her niece's ability, and with good reason.
"Well, then," she said, "we may consider it settled. I shall meet
Claudia in London a week hence and see to a `trousseau' for her, so give
yourself no trouble on that head. You can explain to her all I have
said. She will understand why I do not wish her to make friendships
with any of the Wortherham girls whom she will be thrown with?"
"She will thoroughly understand that she is to follow your wishes in
_everything_," said Mrs Meredon. "But I must warn you that she is a
very sociable child--the world seems to her a very much more delightful
place than to most of us, for somehow she always manages to see the best
side of people."
"I hope she will see the best side of me then," said Lady Mildred,
rather grimly; "for I am a cantankerous old woman, and too old now to
change. Claudia had better rub up her rose-coloured spectacles before
she comes my way."
And so, a fortnight later saw Lady Mildred's grand-niece installed as
the child of the house at Silverthorns, or, according to the local
wiseacres who there, as everywhere, knew more of their neighbours'
affairs than the neighbours themselves, as "her ladyship's adopted
daughter, heiress to Silverthorns, and all the great accumulation of
Osbert wealth."
And certainly the girl's sunny face and bright bearing gave some colour
to Charlotte Waldron's belief that Claudia Meredon was one of those
favoured human beings "who have _everything_!"