I EXPLORE THE NEIGHBOURHOOD, AND
BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH MR. LEONARD GLYNNE.
I WAS downstairs by eight o'clock the next morning, for I had always
been accustomed to early hours. My appearance took the housemaid, who
was dusting the dining-room, by surprise. Breakfast would not be ready
for half an hour, she said, so I betook myself to the garden, which
looked most inviting in the bright sunlight of the first June morning.
Birds were fluttering to and fro between the lawn and the mulberry
tree, picking up their breakfast with much satisfaction. A delicious
breath of sweet-briar was wafted to me as I descended the stone steps
from the balcony. There were rose trees here and there on the beds,
and roses were trained across the rustic arches, which at each end of
the laurel hedge crossed the broad gravel path where it led down into
the more homely kitchen garden. Some of these were in bloom, and by
standing on tiptoe I managed to secure one half-blown beauty, which I
fastened in my gown.
To the left of the house, as I stood facing it, was a long greenhouse.
It had been locked on the previous evening, and I had only been able to
catch tantalising glimpses of the flowers through the glass, but now I
saw that the door stood open. I hastened to enter it. There was nothing
more rare to be seen within than fine geraniums and fuchsias, with
maidenhair and other ferns; but I enjoyed looking at the bright flowers.
Close beside the door of the greenhouse was a door leading into the
stable-yard. This, too, stood open, and through it I caught sight of a
young man engaged in grooming a fine chestnut horse. It was a lovely
creature, light and graceful in movement; and being an ardent lover
of animals, I could not resist standing in the doorway to watch it.
I admired the horse's shapely head, its bright, glossy coat, and the
dainty white fore-foot with which it was proudly pawing the ground as
if anxious to draw attention to his beauty.
I knew enough of horses to be sure that this was a valuable animal, and
I wondered a little, for it scarcely seemed fit to draw the brougham
which I saw standing in the yard. I should have thought, moreover,
that an old lady like Mrs. Lyell would have preferred to use a less
highbred, spirited animal than this appeared.
Presently the man turned and saw me watching him at his task. I
ventured a "Good morning," to which he responded awkwardly. I made a
remark on the beauty of the day, but elicited nothing beyond a sheepish
assent. I heard afterwards that he was the son of the morose-looking
old gardener I had encountered the evening before. Evidently he had
inherited the taciturn temperament of his parent.
I turned back towards the house and met Clara, the housemaid, coming to
tell me that breakfast was on the table. I went indoors and sat down to
the meal in solitary state. How I longed for my dear kittens, which I
had had to consign to the tender mercies of Salome! As yet I had seen
neither cat nor dog upon Mrs. Lyell's premises.
On inquiry I learned from Sarah that Mrs. Lyell never came down before
noon, and then, when strong enough, she spent the interval till
luncheon in reading and answering her letters, for she had rather a
large correspondence, and, although it took her some time to indite a
letter, preferred writing herself, whenever possible, to employing an
amanuensis. Mrs. Lyell's way of spending her morning fitted in well
with my own plans. It left me free to devote to study the hours till
dinner.
Soon after breakfast I established myself with my books in the library,
a small square room, the window of which looked into the front garden,
whilst it communicated by means of folding doors with the large
drawing-room lying parallel to the dining-room, and having French
windows opening on to the stone balcony at the back of the house. The
library Mrs. Lyell had told me I might consider my own room whenever
I desired seclusion. It was furnished with high book-shelves, which,
however, I found, to my disappointment, contained only the oldest
and driest of books. However, as Miss Carefull had lent me a number
of books, and planned for me a course of work with these, I was not
dependent on the resources of Mrs. Lyell's library, to which no book
had been added since her husband's death, some years before I was born.
To one so unused to application as I was, it was not easy to settle
to work amidst strange surroundings. For some time my eyes would keep
wandering to the window, and I found myself idly watching the insects
fluttering above the pond, the old bent gardener going leisurely about
his work, or the few passers along the quiet road, who, especially if
children, would often pause and stand peering through the iron gates
at the pretty garden within. At last, a sense of shame roused me, I
goaded my flagging resolution with the thought of all that depended on
my exertions, and set to work in good earnest. The rest of the morning
fled quickly.
Not till the dinner hour came did I see Mrs. Lyell. She met me with the
sweet, serene kindness which is one of the greatest charms of the aged.
"Well, my love, have you been at work?" she said, tenderly. "Not
working too hard, I hope; you must not overdo it. Your cheeks look
rather pale. Do you not think so, Sarah?"
"Yes, madam; Miss Carmichael does not appear strong," said the maid.
"You are mistaken," I replied, rather vexed by this remark; "I am as
strong as possible."
But this statement neither seemed able to believe. Hardly a day passed
after this without Mrs. Lyell's giving me a similar warning against
over-work, and it was one of the trials of my new position that
everyone in the household would persist in treating me as if I were
very delicate. I was warned against running into the garden without my
hat; if I stayed there too late in the evening, Sarah would presently
appear with a shawl for me and a reminder that the dew was falling, and
she feared my shoes were thin; whilst endeavours to dose me with bark,
port wine, and beef tea tried my temper sadly.
After dinner I sat and talked with Mrs. Lyell for a while, and read to
her scraps from the newspaper. She was rather deaf, but was not aware
of her infirmity, and had a great dislike to anyone, as she expressed
it, "shouting at her as if she were deaf," so I had some difficulty in
modulating my voice so as to catch her ear without annoying her by its
loudness.
Presently Sarah appeared and took her mistress upstairs, where she
always rested for an hour or so of an afternoon. Now I was free to take
a walk, and I lost no time in setting off, being anxious to see what
sort of a place Weylea was.
It was a large scattered village, quaint and rustic still, though
London was fast encroaching on it. Its bounds extended for many miles;
there was North and South Weylea, besides East Weylea, where Mrs. Lyell
resided, though perhaps as they lay a mile or two apart, each place so
styled deserved to be regarded as a separate village.
I wandered along the winding street of East Weylea, looking with
pleasure on the old-fashioned houses, many of them the abodes of
gentlefolks, and the thatched cottages and funny little shops scattered
between. I was struck with the number of narrow fenced passages,
overhung by fine trees, which ran in and out amongst the houses.
Following one of these it brought me, after many windings, into the
main London road again, which I had already crossed in order to gain
the village.
I was now, however, at a point at some distance from Mrs. Lyell's. The
old road looked very pleasant, and, allured by the delight of walking
amidst fresh scenes, I pressed on without thinking how far I was going.
Presently, at the corner of a cross-road, the name Beechwood caught my
eye. Was I near Beechwood? I must go there and take a look at the place
where my brother's friend lived. So I turned into the narrower road.
A pleasant road it was, with tall hedges and grand old trees skirting
it, very different from the roads about Burford. Here and there the
footpath rose considerably higher than the road, and I caught glimpses
of the country around, bright with the emerald verdure of early summer.
But I had some way to go ere I reached Beechwood. Down one long hill
and then up another equally long and steep I went, ere the road opened
into a broad village green, bounded on either side by plantations of
noble trees. All my life I have been a lover of trees, and I rejoiced
to find that the neighbourhood of Weylea was remarkable for the beauty
of its trees.
Crossing the green, I went on along a road shaded by stately beeches,
till I came to some large iron gates. These, I felt sure, guarded the
way to Beechwood Hall. I looked through the gates only to see that
the carriage drive turned sharply to the left, and the house was not
visible. No one was in sight, and so keen was my curiosity that I
ventured to step inside the gates, and passed before the windows of the
little lodge in order to satisfy myself.
Yes, there was the old and rather broken avenue of beeches, which
Edmund had described to me, and the stately old house, forming three
sides of a square. I looked intently at it for a few seconds, not
liking to move nearer; then, turning, abruptly, I almost knocked over a
little lady who had just come out of the lodge. Though little, however,
she was sturdy, and quickly recovered from the shock of the collision.
"I beg your pardon, I am sure," I stammered, hot and confused, as I met
the inquiring glance of her calm, grey eyes.
Even in my confusion, her face I struck me as different from any other
I had ever seen. There was such a look of strength and loving kindness,
blended with a certain sadness in her expression. She wore a black gown
of rich material, though simply made; there was a narrow border of
white within her close-fitting bonnet, and a long veil floated behind
it.
"Do not mention it; I was to blame as much as you," she said, brightly;
"I was looking at Mrs. Grey, and did not see you were so near."
She spoke in a sweet, clear, buoyant tone, the sweetest voice it seemed
to me that I had ever heard; and I think so still.
Bowing, I turned away without another word. What she thought of my
presence there I could not conjecture. Mrs. Grey, standing at the door
of the lodge with her baby in her arms, eyed me curiously as I went by.
As I walked back to Weylea, I remembered that Edmund had spoken of a
widowed sister of Ralph Dugdale's, who lived at Beechwood Hall. This,
then, was she. As I came to this conclusion, I asked myself again,
"What could she have thought of me?"
She did not look as if she could think unkindly of anyone. I carried
with me a vivid impression of her face. She could not have been many
years older than myself, but her look revealed depths of character into
which I could not penetrate. It was strange how in so brief a meeting,
this stranger had fascinated me. I could not help thinking about her
all the way home. Was it a proof that she was destined to play an
important part in the development of my life? I had no presentiment
that it was so.
When I reached Mrs. Lyell's, Sarah opened the door to me and told me,
with suppressed indignation in her bearing, that tea had been on the
table for a quarter of an hour, and Mrs. Lyell was waiting for me. I
had committed the unpardonable sin of arriving late for a meal. Mrs.
Lyell looked grave as she inquired if I had met with any accident to
detain me.
After tea, Mrs. Lyell asked me if I had yet written to my sister to
acquaint her with the fact of my safe arrival at Weylea. I replied in
the negative.
"Then you will do so, my dear, will you not?" she inquired, rather
anxiously.
"Oh! There is no need to write," I said, carelessly; "Mabel will not
disturb herself about me."
Mrs. Lyell looked at me in surprise. "Are you not fond of your sister,
Dorothy?" she asked, after a pause.
"Oh, yes," I exclaimed, "I used to love her intensely before she
married; but since then she has been so different. And now she has a
baby, she will care less for me than ever."
A pained expression came to Mrs. Lyell's face. "Then you have all the
more to love, dear," she said, gently. "It grieves me to hear you say
that you used to love your sister. You cannot know what true love is,
or you would not speak so. We do well to guard and cherish our own
love, but it is a mistake to exact love in return. Believe me, Dorothy,
it is far better to love than to be loved."
I was silent, feeling rather piqued at being told that I did not know
what true love was.
"What sort of a man is your brother-in-law?" inquired Mrs. Lyell, a few
minutes later. "Do you love him, Dorothy?"
"No, that I do not," I answered, decidedly. "There are some people we
cannot love, and he is one."
"Pardon me, dear," said Mrs. Lyell, gravely, "there is no one whom it
is impossible to love. We are told to love even our enemies, and God
does not require of us that which we cannot do."
"It is impossible to me!" I broke in, hotly. "I cannot love a man who
is harsh and selfish and unjust, and who makes it clear that he hates
me."
"Oh, my dear, do not speak so," said Mrs. Lyell, looking grieved. "I
know you cannot love what is wrong and unlovely, but whilst we hate the
sin we should love the sinner, if only that he is one of the children
of our Father in heaven. However wrong people may be, we can always
pray for them, and we soon learn to love those we pray for."
But her words did not touch me; I could not receive them then. I did
not continue the discussion, because I was fearful of saying what would
grieve her still more. To please Mrs. Lyell, I sat down and wrote a
letter to Mabel, but I wrote in a cold, constrained manner, for I still
felt angry with my sister. This done, I settled to needlework till Mrs.
Lyell invited me to have a game of draughts with her. Thus the long
evening passed.
This first day at Weylea was a specimen of most of the days I spent
there during the next month. The only break in their monotony was that
once a week I went up to London in order to take French and arithmetic
lessons at Miss Carefull's. I must say I often wearied of the unbroken
routine. To be constantly in the society of the aged, however dear and
good they be, is a trying experience for any young person. There were
days when I found Mrs. Lyell's oft repeated narrations exceedingly
tedious, and the stillness of the house so oppressive, that I longed to
scream, sing, dance—do anything, in short, to break the quietude.
The wet days were the worst, and we had many ere the month of June was
past. If it were fine, I could relieve my irritation by a scamper round
the garden, though sometimes my enjoyment of such childish abandonment
was checked by catching sight of Sarah's face at an upper window,
gravely watching me. She never lost an opportunity of watching me, yet
I felt that her interest in me was not kindly. Instinctively I knew
that she disliked me, though why was a mystery to me, unless it were
that she was jealous of her mistress's love for me, which the dear old
lady made more and more manifest as we became better acquainted with
each other.
Oh, how I longed sometimes for the presence of young life in that
staid household! A strange feeling would come over me as if I, too,
were growing old. The only young thing on the premises beside myself
apparently was the beautiful chestnut horse, and I was not content
till I had made friends with him. To do so, I had first to conciliate
his taciturn guardian, and win from him the freedom of the stable. I
was not to be deterred by Sam's representations that his charge was
uncertain of temper, and might as like as not kick out at me.
I fell into the habit of slipping round to the stable almost as often
as I went into the garden. Opening the door and advancing to the side
of the loose box, I would call the horse in the most coaxing, alluring
manner I could assume. His name I had not yet discovered. He had a
name, I knew, for I had asked Sam, and he had pronounced it several
times for my benefit, leaving me, however, no wiser than that the name
was something like "Hairy Hal," which seemed too absurd. However,
without the aid of a name, I soon succeeded in winning the horse's
confidence, and he would turn towards me with evident pleasure when I
appeared, and would put his lovely head over the side of the box, that
I might stroke his nose and give him the piece of sugar that he loved.
Every day Sam took the horse out for exercise; but I did not see him
between the shafts of the brougham. Mrs. Lyell talked of taking me for
a drive, but day after day went by and the wind was too cold or the
air too damp for her to venture out. But towards the end of June there
came such a lovely warm day that even Sarah owned that her mistress
would run no risk in taking a drive. The carriage was ordered for three
o'clock, and came round punctually to the moment. A few minutes before,
the postman had arrived, bringing Mrs. Lyell a letter with a foreign
postmark.
"From Leonard," she said, with pleasure, as she opened it.
He had written dutifully to his aunt once or twice during his absence,
but his letters, which I was permitted to see, were very short,
and gave only the barest information as to his doings. This was no
exception.
"Only a few lines to tell me that he will be at home by the end of the
week," said Mrs. Lyell, as she laid it down.
Upon which we went out to the carriage, I rather curious to see how
my chestnut beauty would deport himself under rein. But though the
brougham familiar to my eyes stood before the door, a horse of another
hue and build was harnessed to it, and it was not Sam who sat on the
box. Yet I had never seen but one horse or man in Mrs. Lyell's stables.
"Why, Sarah!" I exclaimed, in my surprise. "This is not the horse I
generally see in the stable."
Sarah looked at roe as if she thought I had taken leave of my senses.
"To be sure not, miss," she said. "Do you think Mr. Glynne would let
his horse draw the brougham?"
"Oh! Is that his horse?" I asked, bewildered.
"Certainly it is. My mistress has not kept a horse for years. So seldom
as she drives out, it would be no good. When she wishes to use the
carriage, she has a horse and man from the livery stables at the Stag's
Head." So saying, Sarah helped her mistress into the carriage, and
carefully arranged the cushions and wraps about her.
"My dear," said Mrs. Lyell, as I took my place beside her, "you look
very puzzled."
"I cannot understand it," I replied. "Does Mr. Glynne live here, that
he keeps his horse in your stables?"
"He does not live in my house," said Mrs. Lyell, "but he lives close
by. His lodgings are within ten minutes' walk. How strange that you did
not know! I must have told you. We will drive that way, and you shall
see where he lives."
It was certainly strange that I should have remained so long in
ignorance of this fact. I remembered now that in speaking of the horse,
Sam had once or twice referred to Mr. Glynne in a way that seemed to me
rather irrelevant.
Was it strange that my heart grew lighter as I received this news?
After all I was not the only young person connected with Mrs. Lyell's
household. There was another who would surely pass to and fro here
pretty frequently if he did not tarry. I suppose my face must have
brightened, too, with this thought, for suddenly I caught Sarah's eyes
fixed upon me with a gaze which seemed to say that she could read what
was passing in my mind. Doubtless she credited me with subtler hopes
than I had conceived of, for there was something in her look that made
me colour deeply as we drove from the door.
On Saturday afternoon I was sitting with Mrs. Lyell. It was a fine day,
but I had not been farther than the garden, having worked myself into a
headache that morning, which made me languid and depressed. There had
been no visitors to the house during the week. Callers were rare at
Mrs. Lyell's, though sometimes old friends from distant parts of London
would come to take luncheon and spend a few hours with her; but now for
several days not even the most frequent visitor, the old clergyman,
whose dreary, drawling talk, usually confined to a discussion of his
own and Mrs. Lyell's health, and the deathbeds he had lately attended,
used to strain my slender patience to the utmost, had been in. I was
rather startled, therefore, when, as I was trying to pick up some
dropped stitches in Mrs. Lyell's knitting, the stillness of the house
was suddenly broken by a sharp, decided peal of the house-bell.
"That sounds like Mr. Glynne's ring, ma'am," observed Sarah, who was
laying the table for tea.
"Ah, it is he, no doubt," said Mrs. Lyell; "he has come back, dear
fellow."
To my vexation I felt the colour rising in my cheeks, and at the same
time was aware that Sarah's keen eyes were upon me. Yet it was not
pleasure that I felt at the thought of making Mr. Leonard Glynne's
acquaintance. The shyness at meeting strangers, for which Mabel had
so often rallied me, came over me once more. I was annoyed that Mrs.
Lyell's nephew should arrive just now, when I was headachy and out of
sorts.
He it was, however, and in another minute he was in the room, greeting
his aunt in the kindliest fashion, and listening, with amusement
sparkling in his eyes, to her exclamations at his sunburnt, healthy
appearance. How bright of hue, how strong and vigorous he looked as he
stood bending down to the pale, withered little old lady in the arm
chair. Stealing a glance at him, I decided that the photograph did not
do him justice; he was even better-looking than it made him appear.
"You see I have a young companion now, Leonard," said his aunt; "this
is Miss Dorothy Carmichael, of whom you have heard."
As we shook hands, his eyes met mine with a curious, questioning
glance. Perhaps he wondered what sort of girl could be content to share
his aged aunt's quiet home. Anyhow, I divined that I had some interest
for him.
"Yes, I am rather brown," he said, in reply to Mrs. Lyell's remarks;
"but so would you be, aunt, if you had been toiling up mountains or
crossing glaciers beneath a burning sun as I have."
[Illustration: "I AM GLAD MRS. CARSDALE IS BETTER."]
Whereupon his merry glance sought mine, and I laughed, as did Mrs.
Lyell, too, at the idea of her achieving such exploits.
"I suppose you did not meet with any one whom you knew abroad?" said
Mrs. Lyell.
"Oh, yes; I met with several acquaintances. At Chamounix, I fell in
with the Carsdales. Mrs. Carsdale is better; they talk of coming home
in the autumn."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Lyell, with a certain stiffness of manner and
change of face, of which I had learned the meaning.
Who were the Carsdales? I had not heard of them before. Clearly they
were not favourites with Mrs. Lyell. Good, kind-hearted, little woman
that she was, she had her prejudices I knew. After a minute, her manner
softened, and she said, though not without an appearance of effort, "I
am glad Mrs. Carsdale is better."
We sat down to take tea. What a different meal it was from any I had
yet taken in Mrs. Lyell's house. Some shyness was at first experienced
by me as I presided, with that bright, brown face opposite to me and
the brown eyes constantly watching me. But the feeling soon passed. It
was pleasant to meet the gaze of Leonard Glynne, pleasant to listen
to his talk. Mrs. Lyell enjoyed it as much as I did, for she had no
difficulty in hearing his clear, strong tones.
When tea was over, Mr. Glynne rose, saying that he must go round to the
stable and see how his horse had fared during his absence.
I suppose he saw that I looked interested, for he asked me if I would
come too. "But perhaps you do not care for horses," he added.
"On the contrary," I replied, "I care for them so much that I have
already made friends with your steed."
"Indeed!" he said, with a look of pleasure. "I am glad that Ariel has
had someone to pet him in my absence."
"Ariel!" I cried. "So that is the name! I could get from Sam nothing
nearer it than 'Hairy Hal.'"
We laughed merrily at Sam's defective pronunciation. How good it was
to laugh once more with a congenial companion! I had not had such a
laugh since I came to Mrs. Lyell's. We made a long visit to Ariel, and
strolled about the garden for a while before going in. By that time a
perfect sense of comradeship united us.
The rest of the evening was passed in looking at the Swiss views
Leonard Glynne had brought with him, and listening to his animated
description of the scenes they represented, with many an amusing story
of his adventures. Very short that evening seemed. It left me strangely
happy, with an indefinable sense that everything had changed, and my
life at Weylea could no longer be devoid of interest.
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