Chapter 6
Pansy's Predicament.
THE months that follow are full of what Pansy Adair once looked upon in vision as pursuits most delightful and bewitching. Mrs. Adair has some secret notion that Cyril Langdale's marriage may have had something to do with Pansy's indisposition, and she resolves to divert the mind of her adopted child who has become very dear to her, by a round of pleasure in its most brilliant aspects.
Dances, fetes, fancy bazaars, theatre-going -- in this way she endeavours to secure the girl's happiness. She herself was wearied of these things long ago herself, but for Pansy's sake she plunges anew into a vortex of excitement, and is rewarded by seeing her charge on all sides courted and admired. As time goes on, proposals of marriage which Mrs. Adair considers very flattering, are made to Pansy. A nobleman well known on the horse racing scene would fain share with her his title and his wealth; an aged and much respected member of Parliament aspires to make her his second wife; a young dramatist, making money fast, and quite a lion in society, is one of her most devoted cavaliers.
Pansy is cool as concerns her admirers, and Mrs. Adair says indulgently, "I shall not hurry your choice, my dear. I should prefer to keep you at my side for many a long year to come. When you are tired of London society, we might take a long yachting cruise together. Many people have given us an open invitation. Or perhaps we might settle down in Italy for two or three years. The air suits me better than this foggy climate. I should be sorry to lose you so soon, and there is no need whatever, with your prospects, for you to make a hasty or loveless marriage."
Pansy thinks she detects a glance accompanying these words in the direction of a large oil-painting of Mr. Adair in civic robes -- a very fretful-looking old gentleman, whose bad-tempered eyes seem to be following her about all over the room.
For a time the theatre seems very charming to Pansy, but before long the sameness and monotony of her theatre-going life make her restless and weary. The plays seem all alike; the rich dresses, the decorations, the music seem to conspire to tire her. The idea of seeing a play night after night would once have been enchanting to Pansy Piper, but the fashionable Miss Pansy Adair is secretly weary of footlights, stage scenery, dramatic attitudes, and actors and actresses.
One of their neighbours at Silverbeach, Miss Mabel Bromley, has recently become a nurse, and Pansy visits her one day in the midst of her duties at the small hospital to which she belongs. Sister Mabel, as she is called, directs Pansy's attention to a poor sufferer from lung disease, a girl about their own age, and asks her softly if she recognizes her.
"No, poor creature," says Pansy compassionately. "I am no district visitor, you know, Mabel. Mrs. Adair would not let me run the risk of infection, though sometimes the feeling comes over me that I would like to do something for other people. I get all the comfort and pleasure I can, and give nothing in return. I wish my life were half as useful as yours."
"Oh, Pansy dear, you have not the nerves for a sick-nurse! But if only Mrs. Adair would allow it, a quiet tune on your violin in the convalescent wards would be a most helpful ministry. Our patients are so fond of music. We have a nurse here who sings hymns for them in the evening, and they seem to calm and soothe the sick people wonderfully."
"I am not religious," says Pansy, bluntly. "I never sing hymns except at church. But if I may really come and play here sometimes, it will be the best use to which I ever put my violin. But, Mabel, who is that poor, thin creature of whom you spoke just now?"
"Her name is Elsie Smith, but she is called Miss Genevieve Marechal, of the theatre. A few months ago she was most popular. Surely you remember her, Pansy? What beautiful dresses she always wore, and in what a bright, lively manner she sang and acted. Showers of bouquets were thrown to her night after night."
"I remember her quite well now," says Pansy slowly, watching the white face that is brightened by a trembling smile as a worker of the Flower Mission goes up to her bed and hands her a beautiful bunch of carnations, with a text of eternal comfort. "But, Mabel, what a change in her. She always seemed the most cheerful person around."
"Even then," says Sister Mabel, "her sickness had hold of her, and was aggravated by late hours, the heat of the theatre, the chilly out-of-door air, and the unnatural pace of her life. When she could no longer bring in money, her employers ceased to take interest in her. She grew poorer and poorer, till at last a worker in a charitable mission found her suffering alone in a miserable attic, and arranged her admission here. I respect the poor girl, Pansy. She is good and virtuous, but I feel sure her theatrical life was beset by temptation, and she will not hear of her little sister going on the stage. We have got the child into a training-home for servants."
The hospital is close to a railway station, and Pansy returns alone to Silverbeach by train. One passenger after another in her compartment alights at intervening stations. Her only companion at last is a young man engaged in reading. She is absorbed in her own thoughts, for her soul has been stirred today by the sight of the patient nurses, the workers in the Flower Mission, and the sufferers whose lives are so different from her own.
If, like some of these, she were lying today on a bed of sickness from which she might never rise, she asks herself what value to her heart would be her dresses and jewels, her musical achievements, even wonderful Silverbeach Manor? At this moment Pansy remembers the old Sunday school of her childhood -- the plain, whitewashed room, brightened by texts on the walls, and by the presence of loving, earnest teachers and smiling young faces. How joyously she had sung of Heaven and of home in those far-distant days.
And then she thinks of those solemn times when, as a child, a growing girl, she listened to the voice of her aunt praying for her and with her that she might be a disciple of Him who died for us -- that the Lord Jesus would set His seal upon her as His own ransomed child.
"Ah, well," she thinks, with something between a smile and a sigh, "my aunt's prayer is one of the many unanswered petitions that have been offered up. I am certainly not religious -- I wonder how anyone could be at Silverbeach Manor."
There is a young housemaid, fresh from Bible class crowned and wreathed with prayer, shining alone for Jesus in the servants' hall at Silverbeach. She might testify that there is no place where the soul cannot serve and honour the Lord. But the young disciple is only third housemaid, and Pansy takes little notice of the comings and goings of the servants under Fox, Mrs. Adair's housekeeper.
Presently she puts her hand listlessly in her pocket for her small purse, and then more carefully. Then she rises, and with a heightened colour makes a search for her ticket. What has become of it, and where is the purse that held it? The purse contained a ten pound note besides some gold. Can it be that one of the patients at the hospital, skilled, perhaps, in stealing, has secured the purse?
Pansy is not used to travelling alone, and it was only with difficulty that she persuaded Mrs. Adair to let her visit town unattended today. She shrinks from an encounter with the guard who will come round for tickets at Morfill Junction, where she has to change trains. By this time her agitated movements have disturbed her companion, who politely inquires if he can assist her in any way. Pansy eyes him distrustfully. He looks nothing like the dandies to whom she is accustomed. She is surprised that he should be riding in a first-class carriage. His hat is clearly not of the newest, and the collar of his overcoat has seen service, and he is not wearing gloves.
Only lately she was reading in a journal that a railway thief had robbed a gentleman, and then politely lent him half a crown to take him home, when the poor old gentleman could nowhere find his purse. The conviction flashes upon Pansy that this quiet young man, hidden so long behind the newspaper, has possession of her purse.
"I think you have taken my purse," she says, with burning cheeks. "I had it only just now, some time after the last passenger got out. Nobody but you can have taken it. Unless you restore it directly, I will pull the communication cord and stop the train."
"Wait a few minutes," says her companion, soothingly. "We shall soon be at Morfill, and then you can state your complaint. Have you seen The Graphic this week?"
In his own mind he thinks the excited, indignant girl is not quite right in her head, and he experiences a passing thought of regret that one so attractive-looking should be unaccountable for her ways.
"I am not so foolish as all that," says Pansy, astutely. "I have been reading about the ways of railway thieves, and you cannot deceive me. When we get to Morfill you will make your escape, so I will stop the train immediately unless you give me my purse."
"My dear young lady, I know nothing about your purse. Let us make a search for it in the carriage."
Pansy looks at his pockets, but he is so strongly built that she does not attempt the assault. "I know it is in your possession," she says passionately. "I have two diamonds in it that fell out of my ring, and I would not lose them for anything. Once and for all, will you give me my purse? If you do, I promise to let you go unpunished."
"I can only repeat, madam, that I know nothing whatever about your purse."
"Then I will stop the train, and the guard shall search you."
Pansy moves haughtily towards the communication cord, and can scarcely credit that the thief has the audacity to seize her hands.
"Excuse me," he says, "we are just approaching the long tunnel, and it might be dangerous to bring the train to a standstill here. You really must not pull the communication cord, madam. This is a very busy line, and at this point it would be a great risk. I hope I am not hurting you."
He registers a mental resolution not to be left alone with a possible monomaniac again, and Pansy, having some idea he may have concealed a revolver, dares not resist his hold, though she trembles like a leaf between fear and anger. No sooner are they out of the tunnel than she commences to scream as loudly as possible, thereby much discomforting her companion, and causing a number of people to put their heads out of the windows of adjacent compartments.
At Morfill quite a little crowd surrounds the windows of her carriage.
"Hello," says the guard, "what is all this about, sir? Stand aside please, gentlemen, and let the lady make her complaint."
"He has my purse," gasps Pansy, pointing at the much-annoyed young man, who vainly looks about for a way of escape. "He stole it from me during the journey. I know he did."
"A most evil-looking fellow," she hears someone say in the crowd. "These railway robberies are on the increase, and it is to be hoped the magistrate will make an example of this man. The poor young lady is almost fainting from fright."
"It is quite a delusion," says the accused individual, earnestly. "The charge is ridiculous. Here is my card," and he hands one to the guard. "I really cannot wait. I have a particular appointment at Masden, and the train is waiting at the other platform."
"So it do," says the guard, "but I'm afraid you can't catch that there train this time, young man. Them as steals purses can steal cards. We've no means of knowing this here is your name and address. Anyways, you'll have to come along to the stationmaster's office. This way if you please, miss. Mr. Spinks will inquire into this affair. He were in the police force once, were Mr. Spinks."
The accused evidently resigns himself to his fate, and though he looks wistfully after the Masden train he walks beside the watchful guard to the office, followed by inquisitive spectators, some of whom say, audibly, "It's the young lady from Silverbeach, Miss Adair. What a fright it do seem to have given the poor young lady, to be sure!"
The stationmaster listens attentively to Pansy's agitated complaint, and scans, with quick scrutiny, the quiet face of the accused.
"Nobody else can have stolen it," says Pansy. "I took out my purse to see if my ticket was all right just after we passed Highdale, and the last passenger got out there. Only this man remained."
The young fellow wishes he had got out at Highdale as well, and escaped all this annoyance. "I am sorry you have lost your purse," he says to Pansy, "but after an examination of my pockets, I trust the officials here will permit me to proceed on my journey, as I am pressed for time."
"Oh, the search is nothing," says Pansy. "People like you can hide things anywhere in a moment. I have read all about you. I dare say you gave it to a confederate in the crowd just now."
"Your opinion is scarcely flattering," says the young man, quietly, "but time presses. Where can I be searched, if it has to be done? "
"One moment," says the station master. "Is the young lady quite sure the purse is lost? I have known cases where articles have been found about the dress. If the lady would not mind examining the folds of her skirt, it may be somewhere in the drapery."
"Oh dear, no!" says Pansy, but the remembrance flashes across her that a little while ago she put a letter, as she thought, in the pocket of that dress, and found out afterwards that it had slipped into quite another part of her skirt. Certainly it is a most awkward pocket to reach. At this moment she detects that the bottom of the skirt is unduly heavy. She puts down her hand with a burning face, and up comes the purse, which has slipped through another part instead of her pocket.
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.
Chapter 7
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.