Who would have thought, three weeks ago, that the magic gates of Fashion would ever have opened to her vainly longing life? She is to be a society heroine like the Duchess Montresor, or the lovely Lady Alexia Seeton of last week's halfpenny novelette. Who will be the hero of her life-romance? The rose flush deepens as before her eyes there comes the exquisite vision of Cyril Langdale.
"It would be useless for you to buy things here," says Mrs. Adair. "Polesheaton drapery must have some out of the ark, but I will get you a travelling costume at a Firlands shop, and an afternoon shopping for clothes for a lady will set you up respectably. For a year or two I think you will not need a maid, but when you really enter society it will be different,"
Pansy agrees, not having the slightest idea what a maid could do for her. She is so excited and bewildered that she gives the heron a gold leg instead of a crimson one, and spoils Mrs. Adair's pattern for a while; but her hostess is graciously forgiving, and talks to her about foreign music masters and dancing lessons, and a teacher of languages, and a governess to read with her a couple of hours a day. Pansy begins to feel quite accomplished already, and her heart sinks within her when the dressing-bell rings, which is the signal for her departure.
"I must go up at once," says Mrs. Adair, consigning the heron to a quilted satin work bag. "I am expecting friends to dinner. In a few days you will have suitable dresses of your own, and dine with me every evening."
"Mrs. Adair," falters Pansy, "I quite forgot Aunt Temperance. Am I to tell her what is going to happen?"
"No, I think not. I would rather speak to her myself, and enter at once on a proper understanding. I am sure she is a most worthy, respectable person, and will see things in a commonsense light. Tell her I will call to see her tomorrow afternoon."
***
"I'm sorry Mrs. Adair chose tomorrow, for it's washing-day. But she means to do the polite thing, and seeing she has given you so much pleasure, Pansy, I'll be honoured to make the lady's acquaintance," says Miss Piper, cutting for her niece a slice of the homemade cake at tea. "We'll make the washing a day later, and Deb will sweep out the parlour. And you had better fill the vases, Pansy. There's a lot of pretty leaves about even now."
"You haven't told Miss Pansy the news, mistress," says Deb, venturing gently to nudge her employer.
"No more I have. There's real good news for us, Pansy. Now, just guess what has happened today."
Pansy looks with dazed eyes from one to the other. Can it be that some rumour of the glory nearing her own changed existence has reached these two, eating their humble meal with such congratulatory looks?
"The lodgings is let," cries Deb triumphantly, taking a complacent bite as she nods her little red head with the tiny cap. "Old Mrs. Mullins is a-going to retire from the butter shop, her son out in Australy a-settling of some money on her, and she's to be a permanent at ten shillings a week, ain't it, mistress?"
"And coal and lights extra," says Miss Piper. "It's more than Mr. Sotham paid, Pansy, but we've always been friendly with Mrs. Mullins, and she wants to be with someone she knows now she's getting infirm. The rooms have been empty a long, long time, but it's a providential mercy, my dear, we're letting them so well at last."
"And Mrs. Mullins is deaf," says Deb, "so she won't mind your violin practising, Miss Pansy."
Pansy smiles a little, thinking how unimportant is this news which so excites her aunt and Deb. Fancy caring about a new lodger -- a common old woman from the dairy shop -- when very soon the lodgings and this little kitchen, and the oil lamp, and the brown teapot and the homemade bread will have vanished into the past, and the reality will be a mansion as grand as The Grange, with liveried servants, late dinners, and all the enchanting experiences of Lady Alexia and the Duchess from her stories!
The commencement of Pansy's grandeur is marked by a night of sleeplessness, which leaves her with a headache and a rather cross feeling. It irritates her to see Aunt Temperance display for Mrs. Adair's benefit the wax flowers and the bits of coral, the pink vases and the rosy-cheeked shepherdess, which only make their appearance from the parlour cupboard on high days and holidays and state occasions. As if Mrs. Adair would give two glances at the waxen leaves and apples, or find any beauty in the speckled green table-cover out of which Aunt Piper is smoothing the wrinkles! And then she recognizes it is for her sake and in gratitude for kindness shown to her that all this trouble is taken, and better feelings take the place of the impatience.
"Dear old Aunt Temperance!" she thinks. "What a careworn, anxious life hers has been. Her days of cutting and contriving are over now, thank Heaven. Mrs. Adair is so rich that, of course, adopted by her, I shall have plenty of money to spare for dear old auntie. She must give up the shop and take one of those little villas at Firlands, and lead a calm, happy, cloudless existence for the rest of her life. I am so glad I shall be able to repay Aunt Temperance for her love and goodness to me, in some measure at last."
About three o'clock Mrs. Adair sails into the shop, and Temperance Piper, curtseying, conducts her to the parlour and pulls forward for her the easy chair with the crochet antimacassar, representative of the Queen in her coronation robes.
"I am sure, ma'am," she says, "I am more indebted to you than I can say for the notice you have taken of our Pansy. She has never enjoyed herself so much in her life before. I hear you're not staying much longer in Polesheaton, ma'am, but I hope you'll do me the honour to take away some of my blackberry preserve. It's a recipe I had from my grandmother, and she used to be housekeeper at Tatlock Grange."
"Indeed, a most respectable person, I am sure," says Mrs. Adair, elevating her eyeglass, and turning a little wearily towards Temperance Piper, "but I never eat preserve. What becomes of all that is made at Silverbeach I am sure I do not know. I suppose the servants must give it away. Well, Miss Piper, I cannot stay long, for unfortunately I have to visit the dentist at Firlands; but I have called to arrange, once and for all, about Pansy. You will be surprised to hear that the best and greatest advantages are offered to Pansy. I have made up my mind to adopt her. Ah, here she is. I am just telling your worthy aunt, my dear, that you will accompany me next week to town."
Miss Temperance Piper gazes from one to the other in dazed bewildered silence. She looks so white that Pansy is a little frightened and clasps her in her arms. "Auntie, if you refuse your consent I will never, never leave you. But I am so tired of this humdrum life, and I should so like to see the world a little, and above all become a great and famous violinist. If you will let me go, dear, darling Aunt Temperance, I will write to you constantly, and come every now and then to see you, and I will take care that you are rich and happy -- your cares will be over for ever."
"I beg pardon, Mrs. Adair," says Miss Piper, tremblingly, "my head is all confused. I don't think I understand."
"I offer," says Mrs. Adair, "to adopt your niece, to treat her in all respects as belonging to me, and to care for her future. She will receive educational and social advantages that would be impossible here, and that will prove costly and expensive. It may be that she will even be my heiress if our attachment deepens with coming years. All I require in return is that she shall belong to me absolutely and entirely. She is to take my surname of Adair. She is to give up all connection with Polesheaton, and entirely sever herself from relations in a sphere quite removed from that which will be her own."
"Do you understand, Pansy?" says Miss Piper, in tones a little sharper than her usual gentle accents. "This lady offers to adopt you, and make you rich and clever and a grand lady, but you are to have nothing more to do with Polesheaton. You are to give up your old home and your Aunt Temperance for ever."
"Yes, that is my meaning," says Mrs. Adair, decisively. "It never answers for young people to belong to two different conditions of life. If you wish to enter society, Pansy, you must turn your back completely on your past. At the same time, to render Miss Piper's circumstances more comfortable, I intend to present her, on your departure, with a cheq
ue for fifty pounds."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, I will take not so much as a farthing from you," says the little spinster lady, her breath coming and going rapidly. "I see your offer is for my Pansy's good, but I beg you will not offer money to make up for my child. I have loved her like my own, and will not stand in her way now. Pansy, my darling, my child, you must choose for yourself. It's a choice soon settled one way or the other -- Polesheaton or society; your aunt and Deb and the shop, or becoming one of the quality."
Pansy takes her aunt in her arms and presses tender, tearful kisses upon the prematurely wrinkled cheeks; but before Mrs. Adair goes to the dentist the choice is made.
"I want to rise in life, Aunt Temperance," says Pansy. "I cannot endure this dull, common life at Polesheaton. I love you with all my heart, but I never shall have such a choice again. I think it would be wicked to turn my back on Mrs. Adair's most generous offer. It would be like flying in the face of Providence."
Chapter 4
Brilliant Prospects
THE last week at Polesheaton is a restless, uncomfortable one, and Pansy heartily wishes it over. Deb is in a constant state of wonder, admiration, and incredulity, and it annoys her young mistress to find that her admission into fashionable circles should excite such astonishment around. All Polesheaton seems to gaze after her open mouthed and open eyed when she ventures down the High Street.
"Are you really going to be a lady, Pansy?" asks Ellen Sotham, the farmer's daughter, who has made an errand with her sister to the post office on purpose to interview Pansy.
"I am adopted by Mrs. Adair, of Silverbeach Manor -- the lady at The Grange," says Pansy, somewhat stiffly.
A short time ago she enjoyed a chat with Ellen Sotham, who was sent by admiring parents to the "finishing school" in the country town, and holds her head rather high in Polesheaton in consequence. But in future between herself and the Sothams there is a great gulf fixed. Pansy feels they are not the kind of people society expects her to know.
"Well, think of that now -- you a fine lady, Pansy!" says Martha, the elder sister. "They say Mrs. Adair is rolling in money, and has nobody to leave it to. You might be a lady of property one of these days, Pansy. Don't it seem funny to think of it?"
"Your Aunt Temperance will be lonesome. Isn't she feeling it very much?" asks Ellen, who is intensely jealous in her heart of Pansy's change of fortune, and thinks Mrs. Adair might have made a far better choice had she looked nearer Polesheaton Farm.
"No, she takes it quite quietly," answers Pansy. "Of course, Aunt Temperance has often said she wished she could do more for me, seeing my mother was a lady; and now there is a chance of my getting on in life, she would not for worlds stand in the way. I quite intend to make Aunt's fortune one of these days, for she has been so good to me all my life."
"Yes," says Martha, "your aunt do take it wonderful quiet, Pansy. Folks are saying they should have thought she'd have fretted a deal more over losing you."
"Aunt is very busy preparing for our new lodger," says Pansy. "She is making new chintzes for the chairs, and washing the blind, so her mind is full of other things. And it wouldn't be like Aunt Temperance to fret over anything that's for my good."
All the same, Pansy is thankful in her heart when the week draws to an end, for the look in Temperance Piper's eyes as they follow her here and there brings the tears to her own, and sometimes the feeling rushes upon her that her aunt's heart may quietly break when she is gone, and that it is wicked to sever her life from the one that has sacrificed days and nights for her.
If nobody else understands what lies beneath Miss Temperance Piper's quietude, little Deb comprehends her mistress. She lies awake in her little attic, wondering if she could learn the violin, and make tidies for the chairs, and fill the vases, and thus in some degree make up for the absence of beautiful Miss Pansy. Meanwhile, she keeps the shop like a new pin, and polishes the counter till it shines, and surprises Miss Piper by rising early so as to bring some look of pleasure to that pale, bewildered face.
At last the day of departure comes round. Long before she is due at The Grange, Pansy arrays herself in the drab travelling costume trimmed with brown fur that has been made at the leading Firlands draper's, and wanders about her room, scarcely caring to go downstairs and face her aunt at breakfast. Deb has received a bequest of her old dresses and many of her possessions, but for all that the little handmaid's eyes are red as she boils an egg in honour of the traveller, and places before Pansy a quarter of a pound of best fresh butter and one of Miss Piper's best baked loaves.
"Make a good breakfast, darling," says Aunt Temperance, cheerily. "The egg is boiled just as you like it, and I have ground you some fresh coffee and made it half with milk as a treat."
Then the remembrance comes to her that this is the last meal she will provide for Pansy, and Miss Piper is in half a mind to retreat to the washhouse, lest Pansy might be depressed by her looks.
"I will write and tell you of our arrival at Silverbeach Manor. We are to stay there a fortnight before we travel," says Pansy huskily. "I am certain Mrs. Adair will let me write to you now and then, auntie dear -- she is kindness itself."
But Miss Piper understands that the lady who has adopted her child is kind in her own way and according to her own will -- selfish even in her liberality -- and she expects very little from Pansy's promises of letters.
"I wonder when we shall see you again, Miss Pansy?" says Deb, laying a timid, reverent finger on the fur. "Lawks, miss, what a sight of money that there must have cost!"
But the costly furs represent nothing like the love which baked the loaf and ground the coffee, and searched for that new laid egg for Pansy's last breakfast in Polesheaton.
"Well, I must be going," says the girl, trying to speak briskly. "Take care of my chickens, Deb, and Auntie darling, I know you will give my canary his Sunday groundsel. I will make both your fortunes yet -- see if I do not. Goodbye, Deb. Be a good girl and take care of Aunt Temperance. Goodbye, dear, dear Auntie. I never will forget you. I never will love you less, wherever I am."
"Goodbye, my little Pansy -- God bless and keep my child!" says Miss Piper as she folds the girl in a trembling embrace.
Pansy rather wonders that her aunt can keep from crying -- her own tears are flowing like rain. The next moment somebody requiring stamps knocks hurriedly on the counter and Temperance Piper goes into the shop, while Pansy Piper leaves the place by way of the garden and enters The Grange as Pansy Adair.
"A very good fit," says Mrs. Adair, approvingly surveying the drab costume. "You have a very tolerable figure, Pansy, and a few lessons in deportment will do wonders for you. It is not nearly time to start for Firlands yet. You are earlier than I expected, but you can help me pack the evening dresses. My maid is dreadfully tiresome about getting neuralgia at most inconvenient times. She is fit for nothing today. Why, what on earth are you crying about, child?"
"I don't like leaving Aunt Temperance," says Pansy. "She looks so poorly and so low-spirited. You will let me write to her now and then -- once a week at least, won't you, dear Mrs. Adair?"
"Come, child, do not be babyish," says Mrs. Adair impatiently. "We have gone over this matter again and again. It is even now not too late for you to change your mind. I am perfectly willing to drive away without you, and leave you to an existence in Polesheaton, if you think it preferable to a change of fortune."
"Oh no! I'm more grateful to you than I can say," answers Pansy in a stifled voice.
"Well, then, pray put that wet handkerchief away and bathe your eyes, and look respectable when Mr. Langdale presently rides in to be our escort to Firlands station. I detest red eyes, child. My nerves are really in too low a state to stand a repetition of such a scene. There is not a girl in Polesheaton who does not envy you today and long to be in your place. Remember that, Pansy."
The mention of Cyril Langdale gives a new turn to Pansy's thoughts, and having bathed her eyes she fastens a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums i
n her travelling coat, and soon cheers up in rapture over Mrs. Adair's evening dresses.
By and by Langdale arrives on horseback, looking, thinks Pansy, more aristocratic than ever. Then the carriage and pair draws up before The Grange, and quite a crowd has gathered to see the last of the London lady and to witness the departure of Miss Piper's niece. Neither her aunt nor Deb is there, being busy at letter sorting just then; but Ellen and Martha Sotham from the farm are smiling and nodding on the pavement, and the young girl at the shoe shop is waving kisses affectionately.
A group of old men and women discuss Pansy's appearance and speak out in wonderment, "To think of that, now! Don't she look like the Princess Royal in them fine new clothes, and a silk umbrella, a-sitting up in a carriage and pair along with the quality!"
Neither Mrs. Adair nor Cyril Langdale appears to hear these remarks, but Pansy's cheeks are burning and she suspects the coachman and footman of hidden amusement. She is thankful when the fingerpost pointing to Polesheaton is left behind, and Mrs. Adair takes her hand caressingly, saying, "Now, Pansy, you have left those dreadful, backward people behind for ever. You are my charge now, and if you please and satisfy me, a golden future lies before you."
Pansy notices that Mr. Langdale addresses her henceforth as "Miss Adair." The title seems strange and unfamiliar for a time, but soon she responds to it as readily as though indeed her own.
She gives a sigh of enjoyment when she is seated beside Mrs. Adair in a first-class carriage on the train, with wraps, hot water bottles, a basket of grapes, and plenty of illustrated papers. This is life worth living indeed, to recline amid luxurious cushions, and have Mrs. Adair's footman and the guard saluting at the door every now and then, and poor people on the platform looking with interest at their magnificence.
A few hours later, and Pansy is for the first time in London; but there is no need for her to feel weary and bewildered and strange amid the turmoil, for a carriage from Silverbeach Manor is waiting at the junction. They drive at their ease down into Surrey, where Silverbeach Manor stands -- a picturesque and much-admired residence near the banks of the Thames at its loveliest point.