Silverbeach Manor

by Margaret S. Haycraft

  David Rumsay seems to have caught cold suddenly, for he goes to use his handkerchief and to beat a retreat. Deb is crying close beside her old mistress, and exclaiming at the beauty and goodness of Miss Pansy, and Pansy turns round and kisses her.

  "Oh, Deb, you have been faithful where I have failed. What can I say to you for your care of my own aunt? She was like my mother. But for you, perhaps I never should have looked again on her loving face, never have heard her words of forgiveness. You will be happy now, Aunt Temperance -- happy, and at rest with your Pansy."

  The old lady only says, brokenly, "Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless His holy name!"

  Slowly Deb learns privately how it comes to pass that Pansy is poor. She earnestly applauds the decision that has been made, and leaves aunt and niece alone awhile to rejoice and give thanks in being together again after years of change and estrangement.

  Deb, meanwhile, has prepared a little meal of tea and toast and a fresh egg, and Pansy is sorely in need of the food. When she is refreshed, and sitting with her aunt's wrinkled hands held closely in her own, she asks Deb to tell her something of her own and Miss Piper's experiences since she left Polesheaton.

  "Ah, Miss Pansy, dear," says Deb, who is busy at the ironing board, "things never prospered at the shop after you went away. Mistress lost heart, and I wasn't clever at the books like you were, and nothing seemed to go right. Mistress just fretted inwardly. That's what she did, Miss Pansy."

  "It was my illness spoilt the business," falters Miss Piper. "Some that owed me money left Polesheaton while I was ill, and I began to see it was time I gave up shop keeping. Deb did the work of six, poor child. Ah, my dearie, no words can tell what Deb has been to me."

  "Well," says Deb, rather sharply, "who was it took me from the workhouse and took me first to the Sunday school? I never had no home till I came to Polesheaton post office, so don't say as you owes me anything, ma'am. It's all the other way round. Still, they were dark days, Miss Pansy, and I never passes the old shop now without thanking the Lord those days are over."

  "But life is not easy for you now, is it, Deb?"

  "Ah, Miss Pansy, but all the burden isn't on one pair of shoulders now. My David -- I may say it, miss, for he's out of hearing, by the back door -- my David is one in a thousand. He's not afraid of hard work. We rubs on day by day, and though it would be hard for us if he got quite out of work, still we can trust the Lord God that has kept us from starving up to this time to provide for us."

  "But, Deb, when Aunt Temperance went away, however did you find her?"

  "I just kept on trying, Miss Pansy -- and praying -- till I did. Mistress were laid up in the hospital, for she'd been took ill on the London road, and she were in hospital at Panfield, about thirty miles from here. They were very kind at Panfield police station, and helped me to find her. Just then they required a girl in the hospital kitchen, and I worked there for them, and got many a sight of mistress, who was in there for some time. Then I got a job in the hospital laundry, and there I kept, except when they were slack of work, and then we were put to it to get along. But mistress and me had two little rooms in Panfield, and she sewed a little, and I went every day to the laundry, for she never spoke no more of finding you."

  "What troubles you have seen," says Pansy, her heart full of sorrow and shame. "And all the while I had pleasure and luxury enough to tire me sometimes. What a selfish creature I am."

  "No, that you ain't, Miss Pansy," says Deb. "It isn't what we've been that we need keep on thinking about, but what the Lord is going to make us. That's what I heard only last Sunday in the sermon. There isn't much selfishness left in you, miss, seeing you've chosen our poor place before Silverbeach Manor. Mistress's dark days are over, I'm thinking, though she's truly had her share of them."

  "But all the time," says Temperance Piper in quavering tones, "all the time, Deb, the good Lord was watching over us. Praise to His name, He never forsook us."

  "Never mind the past, aunt darling," cries Pansy, half laughing, half weeping. "I am Pansy Piper again now -- your own child come back to care for you and help you. The debt I owe Deb I can never repay, but she will give me some share in tending you now. We will all do our best together, and we will all make you happy, Aunt Temperance. So forget the past, and forgive my pride, my ungrateful selfishness so long."

  Chapter 14

  Starlight and Chimes (last chapter)

  PANSY knows that the last place in the world where she would choose to live in her altered circumstances is the neighbourhood that had recently witnessed her pomp and splendour. However, the very first music pupils she secures are the children of the manager of the Wilberforce Hotel, where the best rooms were once at her disposal, and where she fared sumptuously every day. But Deb's husband, David Rumsay, has made a small connection in Firlands as jobbing gardener, and for the sake of the young couple Pansy decides to seek for teaching here, meanwhile selling to the Firlands' jeweller some trinkets which are absolutely her own, Mrs. Adair having given them to her many years ago. They bring her enough to keep them going with care for a while, and her applications at the music shop result in several pupils, for Firlands is certainly a growing neighbourhood.

  Pansy persuades the Rumsays to rent out the little house, as their landlady is giving it up. She and her Aunt Temperance become their lodgers, and Deb takes infinite pride in her little kitchen, and in the pretty curtains and touches which Pansy bestows here and there.

  "I dare say they remind her of her own fine house that she gave up for sake of the old lady," says David Rumsay, seeing Pansy watering the geraniums in the window. "There's nothing like a flower to comfort folks when they're down-hearted. I wonder who's got the Manor now?"

  "Some stranger," says Deb, a little regretfully. "I wish Miss Pansy could have kept it, and kept poor mistress too. But she's chosen right, Dave, for she'd soon have had a broken heart upon her conscience. Don't mistress look twenty years younger than she did before Miss Pansy came back to her? "

  "Ay, that she do, Deb. The old lady's face puts me in mind of a picture I saw up in London once of old Simeon in the New Testament when he said as how he felt he could depart in peace now that he had seen Jesus."

  "Mistress isn't going to depart, though," says Deb. "Miss Pansy's the best medicine she could have. It's quite wonderful to see what a change has come over mistress. Dave, it's an answer to prayer. I couldn't tell you how many times I've heard her a-pleading and sobbing for her child to come to her before she passed away from earth. It didn't seem as if that prayer were ever going to be heard, but you see the answer has come at last."

  "Ah, that minds me of what the minister said at last night's prayer meeting -- 'Delay is not denial'. There's no doubt about it, wife, ours is a prayer-hearing God, and there's never a humble cry poured out before Him as goes up in vain."

  "I'm a little anxious, though, about Miss Pansy," says Deb, confidentially. "She looks too white to be altogether well. And sometimes what she plays on her violin does seem to sound so sad."

  "Violins is mournful," asserts her husband. "They always sounds to me a-weeping and a-wailing. Now, I knows where a concertina could be picked up cheap, if Miss Pansy wanted something more lively. And there's a music book along with it, with 'Bay of Biscay', and 'Toll for the Brave', and such like tunes as those."

  Deb shakes her head. "It isn't the violin as is sorrowful, Dave, dear. I'm thinking it's the heart as is making the music. I wonder if Miss Pansy is fretting after that beautiful place that don't belong to her now."

  "She'll be better after a bit," says Rumsay. "Folks as has been wallowing in the lap of luxury for years and years must feel it a bit strange when they begins to earn their living. But Miss Pansy is a brave sort, Deb, and she's made her choice, and she'll abide by it without whining and fretting. One of these days she'll have a young man of her own, and they'll be as happy together as crickets, bless you!"

  "I don't know about crickets," says Deb, laughing "
but if they are as happy as we are, Dave, I shall be so thankful. I don't like to see Miss Pansy work so hard, and she don't eat no more than a bird. It's no use trying to look ahead, but I'd rejoice to think she'd get as good a husband to look after her as sits taking his supper in this kitchen."

  ***

  "I hope you'll find a sweetheart one of these days, Miss Pansy," says Deb, openly, one afternoon when Pansy is ironing her collars in the kitchen. "You don't know how nice it is to have somebody to tell all your bothers to, like I tell Dave. I never had anybody rightfully belonging to me till Dave came working in the hospital grounds, and one day he up and asked me to keep company. Now I've got the best man in all the world for my own. Don't he play the accordion beautiful, Miss Pansy?"

  Pansy assents with a smile. "There now, Deb, I thought I had forgotten how to manage an iron properly, but I am getting quite clever again."

  "I wish you would let me do them, Miss Pansy."

  "No, Deb, you never get rest. I never saw anyone get through as much in the day as you do. Let the iron alone. It is time for you to see to your husband's tea, I know."

  "I hope you'll be getting your good man's tea some day, Miss Pansy. Wouldn't it be nice for you to have a little house of your own, and Miss Piper living along with you? Dave will tend your garden and I'll do your washing for nothing when you get married, miss."

  "That will never be, Deb. I shall always be Pansy Piper now," says the girl quietly, but a look of pain is shadowing her eyes. She accepts her lot. She is not surprised that Marlow has agreed to her letter without word or sign, but life without him seems very lonely at times, and she has to cure these times of depression by doing something helpful for her aunt or Deb. She has proved that there is no remedy for "the blues" like helpfulness, and in ministry to others she tries to forget that the price of the aged lady's gladness has not been Silverbeach alone, but a possession far dearer than money or lands.

  ***

  As the days go on, Pansy in contrite devotion to her aunt, in sweet patience and restful thanksgiving, in the sense of an answered prayer for pardon and daily help, is hard at work teaching all around Firlands. She sometimes takes part with her violin in concerts at the Town Hall, and earning more applause than remuneration, for she can only summon courage to name a very modest price. In the winter she is often engaged by neighbouring families to perform at their parties or to play dance music. In this way the little household can manage to keep the wolf from the door.

  The Sothams are frequent visitors, and many a drive Pansy gets with her aunt to the farm, calling in sometimes at the old shop that was once her home, and gazing from outside at the new-born glories of The Grange, which has now been let to a rich family of the name of Livett. One day Martha Sotham is in great excitement, for Mrs. Livett, driving over to the farm to leave an order, happened to mention she was about to give a dancing party, and it was "Most tiresome that the Firlands band happened to be already engaged" that particular evening.

  "Of course I put in a word for you, Pansy, dear," says Martha. "You made us promise to keep things close about your having been so rich and quite one of the quality, so I said nothing about all that. But I told Mrs. Livett how splendidly you play, and how you've played at a number of Firlands parties, and she'll give you a guinea and a ride there and back if you'll play for her dance, and also do some accompaniments."

  Pansy shrinks a little from the notion of going to The Grange, but that guinea will buy Aunt Temperance the winter cloak she is requiring. Scolding herself for foolish sentiment and pride, she thanks Martha and writes Mrs. Livett a promise for the evening.

  "I only wish I were you" cries her friend. "I should like to get a sight of the dresses. Mrs. Livett always goes to a Court dressmaker, they say, and Miss Idina is always so prettily dressed. And then the supper. I believe when they have a dance at The Grange the supper comes down from London! And I've heard tell the greenhouses are all hung with lanterns, and they have beautiful fairy lamps among the ferns. But there, Pansy, I forgot it is only what you have been used to all these years. Oh, my dear, my dear, what it must have cost you to give up that beautiful Silverbeach! Are you not often just a little sorry in your heart that you acted as you did, Pansy, dear?"

  Pansy says, "I am unspeakably glad and thankful God helped me to be true to my conscience at last."

  Pansy has plenty of time for quiet meditation during the drive to Polesheaton. The carriage is rather a shabby concern, for younger flymen have superseded the old driver who is a neighbour of Rumsay's, and Pansy wanted him to have the benefit of the job. He gets her punctually to the cheerful-looking Grange where fair ladies and gallant swains are making a bright picture as they move hither and thither in festive attire.

  As Pansy takes her seat upon the music stool she remembers Mrs. Adair, and how beneath that roof she put on her first grand tea gown and read admiration in the eyes of Cyril Langdale. What changes have come to pass since then. She has been raised to splendour since those days, and she has fallen again to poverty. Poor Mrs. Adair is beyond the voices and scenes of earth, and new tenants are at The Grange, and the whole place blazes with modern brilliance and elegance.

  "A little faster, if you please," Miss Livett tells her, pausing beside her for an instant. Pansy's thoughts, that, as ever, have flowed on till they centred round her poet-lover, have caused her music to slacken somewhat. She prides herself on keeping good time, and tries to shake off remembrance, but the place is full of associations, and a painful headache makes her long for the evening to be over.

  As usual, several guests request to be introduced to the aristocratic-looking girl in black, that they may ask her to dance, but Mrs. Livett says, "Oh, that is only Miss Piper, the person hired to play," and she who, in similar scenes was once queen-rose of all, is thankful when the piano is in a quiet, retired corner, and she can escape public notice. Tonight, she has to play several accompaniments, while various ladies and gentlemen sing; and by and by her heart seems almost to stand still when she hears Mrs. Livett say, "Now, Mr. Holme -- where is Mr. Holme? He has buried himself in the library hitherto. Come, Mr. Holme, you must give us a song. What was that lovely thing we heard you try at the Hudsons? Idina, I am sure you can find something for Mr. Holme to sing."

  He takes a piece from the smiling daughter of the house, on behalf of whose prospects these dances are given, and advances towards the piano. He sees a quiet figure in black, and bows politely.

  "Might I trouble you?" he asks, opening the sheet.

  The next moment their eyes meet, and the whole room swims round to Pansy's vision, and she clutches feebly at the piano.

  "How very tiresome!" says Mrs. Livett, when the tumult has subsided and strong arms have borne Pansy to another room. "There is no depending upon these people, my dear," she remarks to a friend. "I gave most liberal terms for this young person's services, and she must go and faint away before the evening is half over. Whatever are the young people to do now? They were just wanting another waltz."

  "I should not think your musician would expect full terms under the circumstances," says the other lady, consolingly.

  Idina, who is young and romantic, and detected the light of recognition in those eyes that met just now, comes in to tell her mother that Pansy is better, and is extremely sorry to cause inconvenience, but feels she cannot return to the room.

  "I have had her fly sent for," says Idina, "and Mr. Holme is waiting outside in the street. I think he means to take her home."

  "How very improper! I am astonished," begins Mrs. Livett.

  But her daughter says softly, "Mamma, I think they know one another. Somebody told us, you remember, that Marlow Holme used to be engaged. Perhaps she is the one. I am going to strike up a waltz, and I mean to have a thorough practice of dance music tonight. ... Yes, you may come and turn over." This to a devoted satellite, who hovers faithfully round the fair Idina.

  Pansy goes trembling from the lighted Grange into the cold, lonely street, and finds her h
and laid with infinite tenderness on the arm of Marlow Holme. Before she can protest, he has lifted her into the Firlands fly, and seated himself beside her.

  "Nay, it is no use, my sweet, my own. I have not sought you half over England to let you go in a moment. Oh, Pansy, how could you forsake me with those brief, cold lines of farewell? But there will be no farewell between us, my own little wife, for evermore."

  Pansy is silent, overwhelmed, faint with happiness. All she can do is to rest against his shoulder, her hands clasped in his, wondering if, indeed, it is Marlow's own familiar face that the stars are showing her.

  He tells her how he became convinced, on reading her letter, that she had changed her mind as to her feelings towards him. He went off then and there to America in misery and indignation. But a letter from England told him that Pansy had fled from Silverbeach, and had lost her inheritance through returning to a poor relation. He returned to England, and commenced searching for her, but his search did not succeed till he chanced to find her as the hired musician at The Grange, which he had only reached that day on a short visit. Then Pansy tremblingly begins her explanation as to the old name she has taken back, her aunt's history, Deb's devotion, and her own thankless selfishness.

  "Oh, Marlow," she says, "we cannot be more than friends. I am only a poor woman now, and, besides, I have Aunt Temperance to keep. I will never part again from her, who was my second mother. You must marry some girl in society, Marlow."

  "I shall marry you," he tells her, "next week at yonder little church among the pines. I have a nest not only big enough for my darling, but for the poor old lady as well. She is mine, being yours, Pansy, and I claim my right to care for her. Deb shall keep the gates, and Rumsay shall have that charming little lodge by the fernery, and work as one of the gardeners. They deserve our best lodge, don't you think so, sweetheart?"

  "The lodge by the fernery? What do you mean, Marlow?" asks Pansy, wonderingly.

  "Simply this, my dearest. I knew my father had English relations, but their name had left no impression on my mind, and I really did not know I was connected with Mrs. Adair. Her will left Silverbeach Manor to her husband's cousin or his heirs if you broke her stipulation. I am that cousin's only child, and I have now taken possession. So, you see, Pansy, you gave your property to me, and therefore it still belongs to you. Let me have your good old aunt, and you shall have Silverbeach Manor. Do not cry, my own! How can we thank our God enough for all His compassion and loving-kindness in giving us back to each other again?"