Silverbeach Manor

by Margaret S. Haycraft

  The third housemaid, Lizzie Russell, a timid-looking little maid, who is deeply in awe of her grand place and fashionable mistress, appears tremblingly when summoned. Seeing Mrs. Adair is ill, the shyness disappears, and she proves an apt nurse, removing the elaborate costume and assisting her mistress to lie down, deftly, calmly, and gently.

  In an hour or two Pansy sends home a note saying Lady Grace Summit has persuaded her to sleep at Summit Grange that night, and requesting her things may be sent on. Nobody replies, for Silverbeach Manor is in a state of confusion and fear. Mrs. Adair is prostrate with haemorrhage of the lungs, and the doctor, who had laid his veto upon her against excitement and exhaustion, has sent for a physician and seems to think the case most critical. Mrs. Adair's own maid is back by this time, frightened and solicitous, but her mistress motions her away and signs for Lizzie Russell to remain. The quiet, calm movements seem a comfort to her, Lizzie having learnt by long nursing a sick mother how cruel to a sufferer would be any show of nervousness or hysteria in the attendant.

  "A trained nurse will be here in the morning. You and I will take charge tonight," says the doctor to Lizzie, and she quietly agrees, but before the daylight dawns there is no need for any more anxious watching, tender ministrations, hope or fear.

  At first they spoke of sending for Pansy, but while Mrs. Adair had strength to speak she told them not to stop the girl's pleasure -- it was only a passing illness -- her constitution was marvellous, and she would be at the fete again before it closed. Pansy was to be summoned on no account whatever because her nerves were far from strong, and she need not hear of the illness till Mrs. Adair felt better.

  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.

  Chapter 9

  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 clergy
men 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."

  By the time she returns to Rooksdale House, Pansy can scarcely credit she is now engaged. Marlow leaves her at the gate with a bright and tender face. He has to go into the town, and she seeks the private sitting room she has reserved, with dew-wet eyes that study the betrothal ring she wears. It is a little diamond ring that was once his mother's, that Marlow Holme drew out from his wallet.

  She casts herself down and beseeches the blessing of God upon her shining future. But something checks the prayer for which her soul is hungering -- some inward sense of ingratitude, worldliness, deceit.

  With a longing for some tender heart on which to outpour her joy, Pansy blushingly shows her ring to Miss Ashburne. She wishes Pansy happiness with looks of strong disapproval, and suggests that it might be well for Mr. Traylon, the solicitor, to make inquiries into the gentleman's means, for those who live by their pen seldom possess satisfactory banking references.

  "What does it matter?" says Pansy to herself. "All that I have is his. I only care about Silverbeach to give it to him. How good, how clever, how splendid he is. How different life seems. I shall be perfectly happy and satisfied now." But uncomfortable remembrances, uneasy feelings of ingratitude and neglect, rise between her heart and the perfect peace that God's blessing only can bestow.

  Before he leaves Rockcombe, Marlow Holme himself introduces the subject of money matters, and Pansy is astonished and a little disconcerted to find he is by no means the needy individual she had somehow imagined him.

  "May's husband said you lived in comfortless rooms, Marlow," she tells him a
s they pace the pier one evening in the starlight. "I thought writers always were poor -- and I thought I was going to make you rich."

  He presses her hand to his side as it rests within his arm. "So you are, my darling. Richer in all ways than I dreamed of being or deserved to be. But my publishers are extremely kind and liberal, and the public are kind enough to like my works, so my literary income is considerable. Apart from that, I was an only child, and inherited all my father had to leave. He was a very successful merchant. As to my lodgings, they are quite good enough for a wandering bachelor."

  Pansy hears the next day from Major Grenville that a large proportion of Marlow's income is devoted to the Master's treasury, to strengthen the hands of the workers, and brighten the lives and hearts of His own.

  "I wish you would come to Firlands, dear," Marlow says persuasively to Pansy, as the time for his departure from Rockcombe approaches. "Grenville and I are going to the Wilberforce, a splendid new temperance hotel, quite a show place, I assure you. Many ladies patronize it. I am sure you and Miss Ashburne would be comfortable there, and I should like to show you the Fern Cavern and the Pine Park. Both are within easy drives."

  Pansy has picnicked many a time as a child in these places on the birthdays of the young Sothams, when the farmer would lend one of his wagons for his children's use. Both places are on the other side of Firlands, and Pansy tells herself there is no need for her to go near Polesheaton if she spends a week at the Wilberforce. The Firlands people know nothing of her, and if they ever saw her as a child they would never associate Miss Adair with the little girl at Polesheaton post office

  "We will spend the last week of our holiday at Firlands to please you, Marlow," she says, smilingly, "though you do not at all deserve it, for it is altogether too bad of you to turn out be well off when I longed so to enrich you!"