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THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE
By
Florence L. Barclay
Author Of
The Rosary, Etc.
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers :: New York
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Copyright, 1910
BY
FLORENCE L. BARCLAY
The Rosary The Following of the Star
The Mistress of Shenstone The Broken Halo
Through the Postern Gate The Wall of Partition
The Upas Tree My Heart's Right There
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers
G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
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To
C. W. B.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I On the Terrace at Shenstone 1
II The Forerunner 8
III What Peter Knew 23
IV In Safe Hands 48
V Lady Ingleby's Rest-Cure 61
VI At The Moorhead Inn 77
VII Mrs. O'Mara's Correspondence 82
VIII In Horseshoe Cove 105
IX Jim Airth To The Rescue 111
X "Yeo Ho, We Go!" 114
XI 'Twixt Sea And Sky 129
XII Under The Morning Star 152
XIII The Awakening 159
XIV Golden Days 170
XV "Where Is Lady Ingleby?" 190
XVI Under The Beeches At Shenstone 205
XVII "Surely You Knew?" 214
XVIII What Billy Had To Tell 220
XIX Jim Airth Decides 231
XX A Better Point Of View 250
XXI Michael Veritas 260
XXII Lord Ingleby's Wife 271
XXIII What Billy Knew 289
XXIV Mrs. Dalmain Reviews the Situation 303
XXV The Test 327
XXVI "What Shall We Write?" 337
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THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE
CHAPTER I
ON THE TERRACE AT SHENSTONE
Three o'clock on a dank afternoon, early in November. The wintry
sunshine, in fitful gleams, pierced the greyness of the leaden sky.
The great trees in Shenstone Park stood gaunt and bare, spreading wide
arms over the sodden grass. All nature seemed waiting the first fall of
winter's snow, which should hide its deadness and decay under a lovely
pall of sparkling white, beneath which a promise of fresh life to come
might gently move and stir; and, eventually, spring forth.
The Mistress of Shenstone moved slowly up and down the terrace, wrapped
in her long cloak, listening to the soft "drip, drip" of autumn all
around; noting the silent fall of the last dead leaves; the steely grey
of the lake beyond; the empty flower-garden; the deserted lawn.
The large stone house had a desolate appearance, most of the rooms being,
evidently, closed; but, in one or two, cheerful log-fires blazed, casting
a ruddy glow upon the window-panes, and sending forth a tempting promise
of warmth and cosiness within.
A tiny white toy-poodle walked the terrace with his mistress--an agitated
little bundle of white curls; sometimes running round and round her; then
hurrying on before, or dropping behind, only to rush on, in unexpected
haste, at the corners; almost tripping her up, as she turned.
"Peter," said Lady Ingleby, on one of these occasions, "I do wish you
would behave in a more rational manner! Either come to heel and follow
sedately, as a dog of your age should do; or trot on in front, in the
gaily juvenile manner you assume when Michael takes you out for a walk;
but, for goodness sake, don't be so fidgety; and don't run round and
round me in this bewildering way, or I shall call for William, and send
you in. I only wish Michael could see you!"
The little animal looked up at her, pathetically, through his tumbled
curls--a soft silky mass, which had earned for him his name of
Shockheaded Peter. His eyes, red-rimmed from the cold wind, had that
unseeing look, often noticeable in a very old dog. Yet there was in them,
and in the whole pose of his tiny body, an anguish of anxiety, which
could not have escaped a genuine dog-lover. Even Lady Ingleby became
partially aware of it. She stooped and patted his head.
"Poor little Peter," she said, more kindly. "It is horrid, for us both,
having Michael so far away at this tiresome war. But he will come home
before long; and we shall forget all the anxiety and loneliness. It will
be spring again. Michael will have you properly clipped, and we will go
to Brighton, where you enjoy trotting about, and hearing people call you
'The British Lion.' I verily believe you consider yourself the size of
the lions in Trafalgar Square! I cannot imagine why a great big man, such
as Michael, is so devoted to a tiny scrap of a dog, such as you! Now, if
you were a Great Dane, or a mighty St. Bernard--! However, Michael loves
us both, and we both love Michael; so we must be nice to each other,
little Peter, while he is away."
Myra Ingleby smiled, drew the folds of her cloak more closely around her,
and moved on. A small white shadow, with no wag to its tail, followed
dejectedly behind.
And the dead leaves, loosing their hold of the sapless branches,
fluttered to the sodden turf; and the soft "drip, drip" of autumn fell
all around.
The door of the lower hall opened. A footman, bringing a telegram, came
quickly out. His features were set, in well-trained impassivity; but his
eyelids flickered nervously as he handed the silver salver to his
mistress.
Lady Ingleby's lovely face paled to absolute whiteness beneath her large
beaver hat; but she took up the orange envelope with a steady hand,
opening it with fingers which did not tremble. As she glanced at the
signature, the colour came back to her cheeks.
"From Dr. Brand," she said, with an involuntary exclamation of relief;
and the waiting footman turned and nodded furtively toward the house. A
maid, at a window, dropped the blind, and ran to tell the anxious
household all was well.
Meanwhile, Lady Ingleby read her telegram.
Visiting patient in your neighbourhood. Can you put me up for the
night? Arriving 4.30.
Deryck Brand.
Lady Ingleby turned to the footman. "William," she said, "tell Mrs.
Jarvis, Sir Deryck Brand is called to this neighbourhood, and will stay
here to-night. They can light a fire at once in the magnolia room, and
prepare it for him. He will be here in an hour. Send the motor to the
station. Tell Groatley we will have tea in my sitting-room as soon as Sir
Deryck arrives. Send down word to the Lodge to Mrs. O'Mara, that I shall
want her up here this evening. Oh, and--by the way--mention at once at
the Lodge that there is no further news from abroad."
"Yes, m' lady," said the footman; and Myra Ingleby smiled at the
reflection, in the lad's voice and face, of her own immense relief. He
turned and hastened to the house; Peter, in a sudden access of misplaced
energy, barking furiously at his heels.
Lady Ingleby moved to the front of the terrace and stood beside one of
the stone lions, close to an empty vase, which in summer had been a
brilliant mass of scarlet geraniums. Her face was glad with expectation.
"Somebody to talk to, at last!" she said. "I had begun to think I should
have to brave dear mamma, and return to town. And Sir Deryck of all
people! He wires from Victoria, so I conclude he sees his patient _en
route_, or in the morning. How perfectly charming of him to give me a
whole evening. I wonder how many people would, if they knew of it, be
breaking the tenth commandment concerning me! ... Peter, you little
fiend! Come here! Why the footmen, and gardeners, and postmen, do not
kick out your few remaining teeth, passes me! You pretend to be too
unwell to eat your dinner, and then behave like a frantic hyena, because
poor innocent William brings me a telegram! I shall write and ask Michael
if I may have you hanged."
And, in high good humour, Lady Ingleby went into the house.
But, outside, the dead leaves turned slowly, and rustled on the grass;
while the soft "drip, drip" of autumn fell all around. The dying year was
almost dead; and nature waited for her pall of snow.