by L. T. Meade
it; but when a good chance offers itself,and a respectable young man comes forward, she should turn him over inher mind."
"He don't want any turning," said Matty, with a toss of the head. "Whatyou're alluding to, aunt, wouldn't be to my taste at all."
"Hoity-toity, your taste indeed! You're nearly as perverse in your wayas Florrie, Martha Jane. Young Mr Clements is a very steady young man,and a very good match for you, and looks at you constant whenever he hasthe chance. It's your duty to let him say his say, and turn the thingover--"
"No, no! Aunt Lizzie," said Martha, in tears. "I don't want him to sayanything--I don't want him to say anything at all--it quite upsets me!"
"Upsets you, indeed! No, Martha Jane, there's no one more againstflirty ways than I am; but a young woman should be able to receiveproper attentions without being shook to the foundations either! A goodoffer is to her credit, and she can say yes or no, civil and lady-like.But in my opinion, Martha Jane, this is a case for saying yes." Mattyoffered no explanation, but if she had had Florence's tongue at thatminute she might have surprised Mrs Stroud. Perhaps if she had not hada sneaking kindness for the attentive Mr Clements, his strikingdissimilarity to every hero who ever adorned the pages of fiction wouldnot have struck her so forcibly, nor would his attentions have been soupsetting.
Love of novelty was a strong element in Florence's adventurous nature,and she started off for Ashcroft in very good spirits, and enjoyed theshort journey by rail from Rapley to Ashdown Junction exceedingly. Shehad never been away from home before. The mere sitting in the railwaycarnage and watching her fellow-travellers was a delight; her round,rosy face beamed with satisfaction, and she had nursed a crying baby,and put it to sleep, and screamed out of window to ask questions of theporter for a nervous old lady before she arrived at her destination, andjumped out on the platform at Ashdown, where she was to be met.
There was a little bustle of arrival. A gentleman got out, and theporters ran for his luggage, and presently one came up to Florence,saying:
"Young woman for the keeper's lodge at Ashcroft? You're to go back inthe trap that fetched Mr James's luggage. He's riding himself."
"And who's Mr James?" said Florence cheerfully, as her box was foundand she was conducted out of the station.
"Mr James Cunningham for the Hall," said the porter, evidentlysurprised at any explanation being needed.
The trap was driven by a stolid-looking lad, and spinning along behindthe big horse was the newest sensation Florence had ever experienced.She was fairly silenced, and next door to frightened, as they passedalong the narrow woodland roads, where the branches brushed her hat, andtrees--trees--seemed to go on for ever.
She had had no sort of image in her mind of the place she was going to,or of the sort of people she was likely to see, and when they came outinto the open clearing, and stopped in front of the roomy, low-lyingcottage, she echoed unconsciously her Aunt Stroud's sentiments, bysaying to herself:
"Well! It's a queer spot."
"So here you are, my dear," said a pleasant voice, as Mrs Warren cameout of the house. "The master and Ned couldn't come to meet you, so wewere glad of the chance of the trap for the luggage."
Florence jumped down and received Mrs Warren's kiss, looking about hercuriously. She was bigger and more grown-up looking than her cousin hadexpected; but her cheerful face with its look of pert good-nature wasvery familiar, and it was at least evident that she had arrived with theintention of being good-humoured.
"I hope you won't find yourself dull, my dear," said Mrs Warren, as sheoffered tea and a new-laid egg to her visitor. "It's quiet here, nodoubt, but we shall have Bessie home come harvest, and Gracie Elton, thegardener's daughter, is a nice girl that you could go with now andthen."
"Oh, I ain't the sort that gets dull," said Florence; "leastways, notwhen things are new. Most things are dull you have to do every dayconstant."
"I dare say," said Mrs Warren, "that your own home may be a littlegloomy sometimes for young folks."
"Oh, it's very cheerful in the cemetery," said Florence, "and there's adeal going on with funerals and folks coming to walk there on Sundays;but I was getting tired of staying at home. I think I'd have gone backto Mrs Lee if she'd have took me."
She spoke in a voice of complete unconcern, and presently asked if shemight go and look round outside.
Mrs Warren agreed, and Florence stepped out on to the short smooth turfand looked about her.
The sun was getting low, and threw long golden shafts of light under thetrees across the grass; above the waving branches the sky was blue andstill.
Florence was an observant girl, who walked the world with her eyes open,and she was aware that she had never seen anything so pretty as thisbefore.
"'Tis like a picture," she said to herself. Presently a pony chair cameup one of the green alleys, drawn by a little grey pony and led by apretty fair-haired boy, younger and smaller than herself. A young manwas lying back in the chair, and Florence stood staring in muchcuriosity as the boy led the pony up to the cottage and Mrs Warren cameout curtseying.
"Here's Mr Edgar," she whispered. "You were best to go in, Florence."
Florence retreated a few steps under the shadow of the porch, butwatched eagerly as the little boy said:
"Mother, I'm going to fetch the puppies for Mr Edgar to see."
"Very well, Wyn; bring them round directly. Good evening, Mr Edgar.How are you, sir, to-night?"
"Oh, pretty well, Mrs Warren, thank you. Wyn's had a long tramp withthe pony, but he wants me to see how much the little dachshunds havegrown. I want to give one to Miss Geraldine for herself."
"They're too wrigglesome for my taste, sir," said Mrs Warren, smiling,"but Warren, he says they're all the fashion."
Mr Edgar laughed, and raised himself a little as Wyn Warren returnedwith a couple of struggling tan-coloured puppies in his arms.
"They're nearly as slippery as ferrets, sir," he said, "but they're veryhandsome. They've no legs at all to speak of--and their paws are ascrooked as can be."
Mr Edgar turned over the puppies and discussed their merits withevident interest, finally fixing, as Wyn said, on the "wriggliest" togive his sister.
Florence had been far too curious to keep in the background, and had notthe manners not to stare at the young gentleman's helpless attitude andwhite delicate face. Wyn, being engaged with his master, had notthought it an occasion to notice anyone else; but Mr Edgar caught sightof her as he handed the puppies back, and gave a slight start as helooked. Mrs Warren coloured up and looked disturbed.
"My cousin, sir," she said, "come to pay me a visit, and to learn thedairy-work."
"Ah!" said Mr Edgar, with rather a marked intonation. "Good evening,Mrs Warren. Come along, Wyn--if you've got rid of the puppies."
Mrs Warren looked after the pony chair as it passed out of sight.
"My master did say I was in too great a hurry--but there, they'll neversee anything of her. But she do take after poor Harry!"
"You should have made the gentleman a curtsey, Florence, when he sawyou, and I had to name you," she said repressively, for she was annoyedat Florence's bad manners in coming out and staring.
"Law!" said Florence good-humouredly, but quite coolly, "should I? Inever seen it done."
CHAPTER SIX.
MR EDGAR.
On the morning after Florence's arrival at Ashcroft little Wyn Warrenstood on the terrace of a pretty piece of walled garden on the southside of the great house, with the wrigglesome puppy in his arms, waitingfor his master to come out and give him his orders for the day. Wyn wasdevoted to Mr Edgar, and to all the birds and beasts and flowers, whichwere the chief diversion of a very dull life. Edgar Cunningham was notnaturally given to intellectual pursuits. He had been fond of sport andathletic exercises of all kinds, and there was a good deal ofunconscious courage in the way in which he amused himself as much aspossible, especially as there was no one but Wyn to care much about hisvarious hobbies
. Winter was a bad time for the poor young fellow, butin the summer, he was often well enough to get about in his pony chair,and visit the water-fowl or the farm, or hunt about in the woods forlichens, ferns, and mosses; sometimes, if he was able to sit up againsthis cushions, stopping to sketch a little, not very successfully in anyeyes but Wyn's perhaps, but greatly to his own pleasure. Wyn managed tolead that pony into very wonderful places, and he and his master likedbest to take these expeditions by themselves; for when the grave andcareful Mr Robertson, who waited on Mr Edgar, went with them, theywere obliged to keep to smooth
