Silverbeach Manor (10 page)

Now she lies
back utterly exhausted, her breathing slow and laboured, her lips
scarcely able to speak in a whisper they are only just able to
catch, "Pray, pray, pray."

"She wants
somebody to pray, doctor," says the housekeeper, who has had leave
of absence for two or three days, and has returned to the Manor at
this time of suspense and extremity.

"When will Sir
Silas Wynne be here?" says the doctor anxiously, longing for the
physician's arrival. He is a capable man himself and has done all
he can, but he wishes to share his responsibility with the great
man from Hanover Square.

"Perhaps Sir
Silas was away from home when your telegram got there, sir," says
the housekeeper. "But, deary me, the poor lady's soul, sir. Won't
somebody see after the poor lady's soul?"

The doctor
knows the housekeeper is a Roman Catholic, and is not surprised to
see her make the sign of the cross as she weeps beside the bed.

"Let a
clergyman be fetched, of course," he answers. "Mrs. Adair evidently
wishes to hear prayers read, though I do not think myself she is in
such urgent extremity."

The
patient cannot hear his words, but she tries to reach Lizzie
Russell's hand, and still her chill lips form that imploring word,
"
Pray!'

In the prayer
meetings of her own Bible class, Lizzie has felt shy at times to
pray aloud, but all self-consciousness vanishes as she kneels
beside the silken coverlet which covers a passing life. The doctor
looks greatly surprised, and the housekeeper quite scandalized at
the notion of a servant girl usurping the function of priest. But
Lizzie has clasped the damp hand in hers, and bent her head above
it, and the Saviour of rich and poor has His witness even in this
uncongenial atmosphere.

She
falters, and the trembling hand tries to press her own in response.
"Lord Jesus, our Redeemer, look down on mistress now. Show her Thou
didst die for her upon the cross. Show her Thou art her Saviour,
her Hope, her Life. She is too weak to speak, dear Lord, but she
wants to see Thee, touch Thee, trust Thee. Thou wilt not cast her
out. Thou didst not cast
me
out. Take her
as she is, Lord Jesus. Make her clean in Thine own precious blood,
O Saviour of sinners, O Redeemer of the lost."

"'Nothing in
my hands'" falters Mrs. Adair, a hymn they often sing at
Silverbeach Church coming as a dim memory to her mind. And Lizzie
takes up the cry, and speaks clearly, slowly, earnestly the verse:
"Nothing in my hands I bring, Simply to Thy Cross I cling."

To the music
of that plea the dim eyes close on earth.

A Conditional Heritage

LADY
Grace Summit has lent Pansy an evening dress, but the non-arrival
of her own clothing makes Pansy uneasy. She was not at all
surprised to find Mrs. Adair had tired of the
fete
and gone home, but she will not wait to
drive over to the
fete
after lunch with
Lady Grace, because she begins to think something may be wrong at
Silverbeach. After breakfasting in bed she accepts the offer of her
friend to drive her back to the Manor.

A messenger
has already been sent for her, but has taken a short cut across the
fields and thus missed Lady Grace's carriage. Pansy makes her
adieux smilingly and unconsciously, and promises to be again at the
tent of roses early in the afternoon. The butler's face as he opens
the door at Silverbeach fairly alarms her, and the housekeeper
comes forward to meet her and draws her into the morning room,
breaking into lamentations.

"She can only
have fainted," says Pansy, incredulously. "Why don't you do
something to bring her round? She was as well as possible
yesterday."

"So they tell
me, Miss Adair, and I never shall forgive myself that I was away on
a visit to my married sister at Brixton. I would have begged the
mistress not to tire and excite herself over the doings in the
park. The doctor has often told her to keep quiet. But there's no
one can do any more for the poor dear mistress, Miss Pansy dear.
Lizzie and me closed her eyes, and Lizzie has been a great comfort
all night, miss; I'll say that for her. And the doctor have written
to mistress's lawyer. I'm not aware that mistress had any near
relations to be communicated with, but you know better than I
do."

"No," says
Pansy; "her husband had a cousin, I believe, but he emigrated. She
often said she was without relations. Oh, it cannot be true. Let me
go to her."

It is not till
Pansy stands beside the bed and kisses the calm, cold brow that she
realizes the end has come indeed to the life so lately garlanded
with every comfort and pleasure that wealth can bring.

Only a
few hours ago the lips that are silent spoke of summers and winters
yet to come, of enjoyable trips in Switzerland, of a new plan of
lighting and warming the beautiful villa designed
for
the residence abroad. Now through all these
plans and schemes God has struck eternal silence. The tears fall
like rain from Pansy's wistful eyes, and a solemn whisper seems to
reach her heart beside that bed: "Therefore, be ye also ready, for
in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh."

"Do come and
take some refreshment, madam. You really must not neglect yourself.
So much will fall upon you now that you owe a duty to your
constitution, and you had better let me assist you to lie down, and
bring you up a little luncheon to your room." Mrs. Adair's lady's
maid, always obsequious, is doubly so this morning, and her manner,
as she draws Pansy solicitously from that quiet room, reminds the
girl what a different position is her own henceforth. She has not
the slightest doubt that her guardian, who outpoured upon her so
much affection, has bequeathed to her this fair inheritance. She is
mistress of Silverbeach, of the beautiful home she has learnt to
love, and all its costly possessions.

But she stands
alone in the world, for the courtesies of her numerous
acquaintances cannot comfort or rest her heart. It is natural that
her wistful thoughts should go out at this hour to the aunt who
gave her up so patiently to a brighter, grander life. She will seek
out poor Aunt Piper, and install her somewhere in plenty and
comfort. What a welcome will be hers when she enters Polesheaton
again, and goes quietly into the post office and twines her arms
around Aunt Temperance, whose heart, she knows, has room for her
still.

The days that
follow are busy ones for Pansy. Everyone seems to acknowledge her
as mistress and head, and Lady Grace Summit tells her of a very
expensive and much sought-after lady companion connected with the
aristocracy, who for suitable remuneration might be induced to
reside at Silverbeach. Mr. Traylon, the solicitor, is much at the
Manor, and makes arrangements for that solemn ceremony wherein he
and the doctor and the clergymen are mourners, and which is
complimented by a string of empty carriages representing the
sorrowing of various families of repute around.

Pansy is a
little surprised to see Marlow Holme amid the people near the
grave. He stands there with uncovered head, listening reverently to
the service, but he makes no attempt to intrude himself on her
notice, though he sends her a few lines of heartfelt sympathy.

After the
funeral, the contents of Mrs. Adair's will are made known in
private to Pansy. Most people look upon her as mistress of
Silverbeach as truly as was its departed owner, but Mr. Traylon and
Pansy and one or two others are aware that the inheritance has not
been bequeathed unconditionally. It is absolutely forfeited if
Pansy has any voluntary communication with "Miss Temperance Piper,
her former guardian." So run the terms of Mrs. Adair's last will,
made some time ago, and perhaps repented of in that last hour when
selfishness and earthly distinctions fade away for ever. But the
will was made at a time when Mrs. Adair was resolute that her
adopted child should belong to herself and to Silverbeach, and
never disgrace her wealth and education by a return to her former
sphere of life or recognition of common friends.

"Do you agree
to this sole condition, Miss Adair?" asks Mr. Traylon, quietly. "In
the event of your refusal to do so, Silverbeach passes to the
family of Mr. Adair's cousin who emigrated. I do not think Mrs.
Adair knew them at all, though doubtless the family could be
traced. Perhaps you would desire a certain time for
consideration?"

But Pansy
looks through the plate glass windows at the grounds, the lake, the
hot-houses, and shudders at the notion of surrendering luxuries
that have become to her as necessities.

"No
consideration is needed, Mr. Traylon," she says, hastily. "I accept
the condition. I will keep to the terms of the will."

And, as far as
the fact of mourning will permit, a great deal of homage,
adulation, and sympathy is henceforth offered to the fair young
mistress of Silverbeach Manor.

Miss
Ashburne, the highly recommended
chaperone,
is engaged as Pansy's companion. She proves to be exceedingly
elegant and impressive, with extreme horror of anything common and
unfashionable, and devoted worship of all things on which society
has set its stamp of approval.

She is
eloquent in condemnation of work in the ragged school, as savouring
of the habits of the lower middle classes. She has, however, no
real authority over Pansy, and the teaching at Masden continues.
Pansy in her heart accepts her class as Marlow Holme's legacy,
though having fairly started the mission he is seldom seen at
Masden, being engaged in launching a very difficult enterprise
elsewhere.

Nearly a year
after Mrs. Adair's death, Pansy and her companion are staying at
Rooksdale House, a mansion-like boarding house at a fashionable
seaport. Conscience or undefined longings may have something to do
with the fact that Pansy has to take tonics, and is advised sea
air. She has come to Rockcombe rather reluctantly, finding great
sameness in fashionable resorts and boarding-houses, but Miss
Ashburne reminds her reproachfully that the Duchess of Balways
stays at Rockcombe, and Rooksdale House was once the property of a
distinguished Marquis.

"This is a
pleasant surprise," says a never-forgotten voice beside her in the
drawing room before dinner. "I am so glad you have come to
Rockcombe, Miss Adair. The air is so bracing, and the views are
glorious. May I present my friend, Major Grenville?"

Pansy smiles a
warmer welcome than she speaks. She can scarcely believe it
possible that Marlow Holme and she are side by side, brought into
contact with one another, perhaps for many a day -- that he of whom
she has lately seen so little is looking at her now with the glance
so well remembered. How can he, whose home is in the shabby
lodgings she so often pictures, afford to pay the terms required by
the proprietress of Rooksdale House? But she decides that as he and
Major Grenville are evidently together, the Major is probably
paying the expenses of both, and in her heart she feels intensely
grateful to him for his kindness to her poet-friend.

"We are down
here helping the local friends to start a YMCA Institute," Holme
tells her next day, while Miss Ashburne is in reverential converse
with an aged earl on the terrace, and the two have drawn apart to
look at the vessels on the blue waters of the bay. "The place has
some important shops, and the young men are responding with
interest to the movement. We shall remain here till after the
approaching public meeting. Then Grenville and I are asked to
Firlands, to try and revive public interest in the work of the YMCA
there."

"Firlands,"
says Pansy, with a start.

"Yes, a
beautiful resort among the pines. It is a charming spot, and very
popular with physicians. Have you never been there, Miss Adair?
"

"Some years
ago," she answers warily. "It must look quite different now."

"It is quite
an important place," says he. "I have been down there several
times. When I first came to England from the Colonies the climate
laid me up, and I was sent to Firlands to recuperate. I like the
surroundings, too. They are so picturesque and quaint. Do you
remember that funny little place, Polesheaton, with the tiny
church, and the barber shaving the people out of doors by the
village pump, and the duck pond in the High Street? But, perhaps,
when at Firlands you did not drive to Polesheaton."

Pansy looks at
him with a burning face. "I ... I have seen Polesheaton," she says.
"It is a dreary little hole. Don't you think it is rather chilly
standing still, Mr. Holme?"

So they wander
among the chestnuts and limes and beeches in the grounds, and
afterwards stroll down to the shore and forget all about the flight
of time till they hear the luncheon bell at Rooksdale House.

Many a morning
they are together, to their own bliss and contentment and the
disapproval of Miss Ashburne who objects to writers as strange and
short of money, and would much prefer for the present that Pansy
should entertain no notion of changing her condition.

One day, when
Marlow Holme has helped her over some rugged rocks, he ventures to
keep her hand in his own and says, softly, "I wish you would let me
help you across every rough place through your life. Will you,
Pansy?"

"Oh, I am not
good enough. You do not know how horrid I am," she falters.

He takes her
other hand and speaks earnestly. "Pansy, you are the love of my
life. Are we to be apart or together? Your kindness, your interest
in my books, your gentle ways, have led me to hope. If I am loving
vainly, I must try to bear my fate bravely as Heaven's will, but if
you care for me a little, there is no reason why our roads should
not lie together for ever and ever."