Silverbeach Manor (8 page)

The quiet eyes
meet hers for an instant as she stands aghast, wishing the ground
would open and hide her. The porters comment on the cleverness of
their chief, and the station master turns again to his pen and ink.
Pansy stammers some words of shamed apology, but the supposed
culprit is already out of the office, trying to make up for lost
time by inquiries as to another route to Masden now the mainline
train has departed.

Marlow Holme

MAY
DAMAREL, of Willowtree, Pansy's closest friend, is about to be
married. Her
fiancé
is a celebrated
organist, too grave and clever-looking, some of the young folks
think, for May; but it is a true love-match, and both parties seem
very happy in prospect of the occasion.

"
You shall be chief bridesmaid," May whispered
to Pansy when announcing her engagement, and so it has been
arranged. And never did fairer bridesmaid pass between seats filled
with eager, interested spectators than the beautiful Miss Adair, in
silken garments the colour of a tea rose, and drooping daffodils
holding the drapery here and there.

Pansy is
secretly a little excited today, for she has heard that the best
man is to be Marlow Holme, the poet, whose work she knows and
loves, and she rather likes the thought of walking down the aisle
on the poet's arm. She visions a far-away look, dreamy eyes, long
flowing hair, a general aspect of familiarity with Pegasus, and
unconsciousness of what is going on around. As soon as possible she
steals a glance at the tall figure standing beside the
bridegroom.

Though the
service has commenced, Pansy can scarcely withhold an exclamation
of horror. Her face flushes crimson, and the other bridesmaids
think a pin must be pricking her, or that her hair must be coming
down. In Marlow Holme, deputed to be her escort, she has recognized
at once the young man to whom she caused such annoyance by hasty
and unjust suspicion.

There is only
one comfort -- he took little notice of her that day, being hurried
and impatient. "It is scarcely likely he will know me again in
festive attire, with my hair done quite a different way," thinks
Pansy, with consoling remembrance. But she has never been able to
forgive herself for the unwomanly vehemence with which she so
positively insisted upon the young man's guilt, and she very
sensibly decides never more to judge from first appearances, or to
accept circumstantial evidence as wholly infallible.

Being a poet,
he is sure to be poor. Perhaps he was trying for some lucrative
employment when hurrying to Masden, where resides a well-known
editor and publisher. Perhaps he lost the appointment through the
delay occasioned by her persistence! Pansy resolves to question May
concerning Mr. Thornden's friend, and reflects somewhat impatiently
that she is not likely to obtain a confidential chat with the
new-made wife till the honeymoon is over and the pair have returned
to town. If indeed the poet lost a good appointment through her
folly, Pansy feels she would like to send him the ten pound note
which at present reposes within her desk.

She rejoices
in the knowledge that Holme does not recognize her, as he politely
escorts her to the carriage, makes pleasant conversation, attends
to her requirements during the repast that is provided at
Willowtree. Her quick observation discerns that he drinks the
bride's health in the beverage wherein slices of lemon and lumps of
ice are floating within a goblet of amber hue. He is the only male
abstainer at the table, but that does not seem to discomfort him at
all. Marlow Holme looks like one who, having made up his mind that
a course is right, would stick to it though in the minority -- one
who would not be ashamed to show his colours in the face of all the
world.

Pansy is quite
at her ease till they chance to find themselves alone in the inner
drawing room that evening, searching for a violin piece the bride's
father has requested.

They are
turning over the contents of the music cabinet, when Marlow Holme
asks suddenly, "Have you had any more misfortunes with your purse
of late, Miss Adair?"

"Oh," stammers
Pansy, "I thought you did not know me." And tears of vexation and
shame bedew her eyes. "Oh, Mr. Holme, I am so ashamed of myself. I
never can find my pocket in that dress!"

"Why, I did
not think you would take the matter so to heart," he says gently,
"or I would never have made any reference to it. Let us bury it in
oblivion, Miss Adair. You were very much disturbed that day."

"I will
have my pockets made differently," falters Pansy. "It was all the
fault of my dress. Mr. Holme, I have thought about it so often
since, and wished I could in some way make up to you for my
insults. Can you ever forgive my
accusations?
"

"Indeed I can,
and do. No lady before had ever honoured me with so much notice,"
he says, with a smile. "Well, as we recognized each other, perhaps
it was better to clear the air. Now let our unfortunate railway
journey together become a thing of the forgotten past."

Several guests
sleep at Willowtree, and the next day there is a picnic at a
lovely, overhanging wood, where a great deal of climbing is
necessary, and where the poet's arm is frequently at Pansy's
disposal.

"What a
handsome pair they make I" says May's mother, surveying Holme and
Pansy side by side. "But of course Mr. Holme would not satisfy Mrs.
Adair. A writer's earnings are so precarious, and I have heard
young Holme gives a great deal away. James Thornden thinks highly
of him, and I have never seen Pansy look so well content with an
escort. I hope we have not been imprudent in introducing one who is
only a writer to a girl with such prospects as Pansy's."

Pansy thinks
she has never seen eyes smile so kindly before, as he holds out his
hand in token of the pardon she has asked. She says, "Mr. Holme,
before we forget my injustice I want you to let me make
reparation."

"You can do so
fully," says he, "if I may have that wild rose you gathered."

She yields it
to him with a smile. "No, but I mean in another sense. You were
very anxious to get to Masden, and I have been thinking you might
have been seeking some appointment, which perhaps you lost through
missing an interview. It may have meant a heavy loss for you. Would
ten ... twenty pounds...?"

"No, they
would not," he says gently, for he reads her distress too clearly
to feel offended. "I was in search of no work that day, as concerns
my pen. Some friends were inconvenienced by my unpunctuality, that
is all. There was a large temperance meeting at Masden, and the
speaker did not get there till the close. If you have ever arranged
such meetings you will understand I was anxious not to put out the
organisers by arriving late. Still, it is over now, Miss Adair, and
my Masden friends have forgiven me. So banish remorse from your
heart, and let us enjoy the wild flowers and these young
ferns."

The woods have
never seemed so charming to Pansy before, nor has a picnic appeared
to pass so quickly. Somehow she feels as if she had known this
young poet a long, long time, and they part that day each secretly
feeling they want to know more of each other. Marlow Holme is not a
society man, but is the working spirit in many a project of
usefulness, many a channel of blessing difficult to open up.

"I can never
understand your being a poet," she says, smilingly, to Holme one
day. "People call you so business-like and practical, and you are
working such splendid schemes. I thought poets lived in a dream
world of their own."

"And were
useless to hungry, sick, neglected fellow-creatures," he exclaims.
"I cannot permit you to misjudge my brethren thus, Miss Adair. I
know lives aflame with genius that count it more glory to give a
practical helping hand here and there than to wear Fame's laurels,
and count it more happiness than receiving public plaudits to
comfort those that mourn and make straight rough and crooked
pathways."

***

When young Mrs.
May Thornden settles down in her Richmond home Pansy frequently
spends a few days with her, for Mrs. Adair is feeling unequal to
going out much just now, and is glad for her adopted daughter to
enjoy herself without the cost of personal weariness. Those three
or four days at Richmond are sunshiny times for Pansy.

She
often sees Mr. Thornden's poet-friend, who so often chances to drop
in while she is visiting there. She seldom mentions Marlow Holme,
even to Mrs. Adair, for she is well aware
Mrs.
Adair
would suspect a poor poet of fortune-hunting.
But she thinks of him when alone, dreams of him, reads his poems
again and again, till the beautiful thoughts and words seem graven
upon her heart. And she learns to look up to him, to treasure his
opinion, to revere his character in a way that never entered into
her former fascination for him.

One
evening Mrs. Thornden has been singing a ballad about a mother's
love, and Marlow Holme remarks to Pansy on the balcony, "That is a
blessing we two have missed, is it not so, Miss Adair? I can just
remember my own mother. She died when I was quite a little fellow,
but her face is a fadeless memory. And if I am not mistaken, you
are Mrs. Adair's
niece?
At least, so I
have heard,"

His face
is full of interest, perhaps of something more. Pansy's life story
concerns him in a way his secret heart is just beginning to
realize. The girl flushes and trembles, not so much because his
kind, clear gaze is meeting her own, as because the recollection
that has become so dim of the general shop at Polesheaton rises
anew before her eyes. Marlow Holme must never know of poor Aunt
Piper and the shop. He is her ideal of a cultured, educated
gentleman, and she prizes his good opinion more than that of any
other friend. What
would
he think of her
if he knew she were related to a second-rate shopkeeper, and had
cut bacon and weighed candles, and made up packets of grocery for
many a bygone year?

The perfume
from her fan mingles with the scent of the lilies in the balcony as
she replies with a falter that he attributes to her sense of
orphanhood, "My mother -- the daughter of an officer -- -died a
long, long time ago. I have never known the mother-tenderness of
which May sang just now."

"But Mrs.
Adair of Silverbeach has filled a mother's place as far as she can,
I imagine?" he says in response. "Mrs. Thornden often speaks of
your aunt's affection for you, and her pride in your musical
talent."

She reflects
how people often make the mistake of believing Mrs. Adair to be her
aunt, so why should she enlighten Marlow Holme? Why should she tell
him that Silverbeach Manor is only her home through its owner's
gracious adoption of a poor girl without education, money, or
prospects?

"Oh, nobody
can be kinder than she is, and we are very fond of one another,"
answers Pansy. "Still, I often wonder what my mother was like. I
often envy May her cheery, sympathizing, tireless mother."

"Yes, I have
heard Mrs. Adair is easily fatigued and very delicate," says Marlow
Holme. "Her weakness must be a tie to you who are bound to her by
so much love and duty. Else I was thinking of asking your aid in a
project one or two friends and I are just commencing."

"Please
tell me about it," says Pansy, flushing with pleasure. It seems so
sweet to her that he wants her to share in a scheme that is dear to
his heart.
"
Mrs. Adair never minds my
coming out. She has always plenty of fancy work and sketching on
hand."

But Pansy
knows that this very morning a voluntary proposal to stay at
Silverbeach would have been extremely welcome to the invalid.
Prosperity has not made her less selfish than in the days of need
at Polesheaton.

"We are
starting a mission at Masden, about five miles from Silverbeach. It
would be a very short train journey for you, Miss Adair."

"Oh, we often
drive to Masden. The river and canal views are so picturesque; but
those dreadful brickfields spoil the place, for the labourers are
just like rough savages."

"They are hard
to deal with," says Marlow Holme, "but there is One with whom
nothing is too hard."

Pansy looks up
at him a little wistfully. She knows that society thinks him "odd"
because he is not ashamed to be openly known as religious. "Please
continue," she says.

"
My friend, the Masden curate, and two or three
others are uniting to help those who seem most neglected, and to
teach their children, and the little ones that belong to the
barges," he tells her. "We are anxiously looking for lady helpers
in the Ragged School. Do you know anything of such work, Miss
Adair?"

"I went to a
Sunday school when I was a child, Mr. Holme. I was fond of the old
place and the teachers."

"I am glad to
hear it," he says heartily. "So many children belonging to the
upper classes can be carefully kept from mixing with the little
ones in Sunday schools. I am glad Mrs. Adair showed her sympathy
with the grand Sunday school movement by sending you there. You
will in that case be able, I feel sure, to gain her consent to
helping us as a teacher. I shall be at Masden Ragged School on
Monday. Might I hope to introduce you then to your little
scholars?"

"If you think
I can do them any good," hesitates Pansy.

"You can teach
them the three Rs at any rate, and explain the Bible stories we
have pictured on the walls. Do come to our aid, Miss Adair. I have
this mission deeply at heart. Give me the help of your influence in
the neighbourhood."