Chapter 10
Old Acquaintance
MISS ASHBURNE is graciously pleased to approve of Firlands, having found the air beneficial when companion to a much-quoted dowager-duchess. At the close of a lovely day, at the sunset time, the two ladies reach the fair resort among the pines, and Major Grenville and Marlow Holme are waiting on the station platform to escort them to a horse and carriage. With what a tumult of strange feelings Pansy sees once more the well-remembered streets.
Marlow thinks her quieter than usual, and paler. He is solicitous as to her feeling tired after the journey, but Firlands is so closely associated in Pansy's memory with Polesheaton that the thoughts are rushing back to her of that day when her first good dress was made at a Firlands shop, and that hour when from Firlands station she started out upon her new life of brilliance and grandeur.
The place has since then been considerably enlarged, but it was always full of delights and wonders to Pansy's childhood, and somehow it seems smaller now than it appeared in the past, and far less wonderful and imposing than in the days when life's greatest treat was to look at the shop windows, so different to quiet Polesheaton.
The ladies join the table d'hôte dinner at the Wilberforce, and there Pansy's worries begin. Close beside her sits an old gentleman who used to take lodgings in Polesheaton for the sake of sketching sometimes, and had many a chat with her in the post office, and sometimes presented her with chocolate from the grand confectioner's at Firlands.
Pansy recognizes him directly, though the iron-grey hair of yore is white, and he is less erect than he used to be. Suppose he should recognize his little favourite of old, and before all these people ask questions and make remarks which would let Marlow know her former obscurity, and plunge her into shame and confusion!
Fortunately for Pansy, the old gentleman is very cross because a certain dish he coveted is exhausted, and he has no attention to spare beyond his grievance. However, her dinner is spoilt for her, so great is her dread of recognition, and she begins to wish that even for the sake of being with Marlow she had never consented to visit Firlands.
"I am painting the loveliest little place I have seen for many a day," says Marlow next morning. He is very fond of busying himself with a brush when he has leisure. "If you and Miss Ashburne will favour me with your company today, I should greatly like to drive you over. Grenville will be engaged with friends from London till six, when we both are due at a public meeting."
"If Miss Adair is not too tired after yesterday's journey," says Miss Ashburne, "we shall enjoy a drive this beautiful morning. Are you painting the forest scenery, Mr. Holme?"
"No, my subject is a picturesque old cottage covered with wisteria by the side of a stream crowned with water lilies. I am getting in likewise a bit of an old mill close by. Well, Pansy dear, will you favour me today? Shall I order the carriage?"
"Whereabouts is the cottage?" asks Pansy, who has a miserable feelings that such a place is part of the Polesheaton memory. Surely the old gentleman who caused her such agitation at yesterday's dinner has painted it again and again. She is prepared for his reply, and makes up her mind not to go.
"Just on the other side of Polesheaton, a quaint little place a few miles off. You drive through Polesheaton, and the cottage stands just by the crossroads. A carriage road to Polesheaton has now been made through the forest. It is lovely scenery all the way. Do say you will come this glorious morning."
"I see the Summits are staying here. Their name is in the visitors' list," says Pansy quickly. "I should like to see Lady Grace this morning. They may be leaving soon."
He looks so disappointed -- having very little leisure and rejoicing in the hope of a holiday morning with Pansy -- that at last she relents, lest he should deem her wilful and capricious. After all, there is some secret yearning within her to look just once upon the old church, the duck pond, the ancient houses, the tiny post office with the birds' nests in the roof. They will only drive quickly through -- no worry or perplexity can arise from gratifying Marlow by taking the drive he has arranged.
The road through the forest is gemmed with every loveliness of berry, flower, and tree. At times it is dusky with firs, then the vision catches glimpses of water, bracken, and wild flowers. Rabbits and squirrels dart here and there, startled by the horse's feet. The first hour is a happy one to Pansy, sitting opposite Marlow and meeting his bright, loving gaze, discussing with him his forthcoming book, and realizing that henceforth she has a share in the poems that help and inspire so many. She sees how fortune has favoured her. Was ever woman's life so rich in all that can gladden and glorify it?
But Pansy can scarcely carry on the conversation when, in the distance, she sees the ivied tower of Polesheaton Church, and knows that soon they will pass the signpost and drive through the familiar High Street.
"Polesheaton is such a funny little place," says Marlow. "Full of reminders of the old coaching days, and keeping itself disapprovingly apart from the rush and commotion of modern life."
"The sort of place where nothing ever happens, I suppose," says Miss Ashburne.
"Something did happen a few years ago," says Marlow, smiling. "The old woman whose cottage I was painting the other day is quite a local authority. She regaled me with all the annals of Polesheaton. I am afraid I was thinking more about my artistic endeavours, but I remember one event she related. Some boy or girl from the place -- I forget which -- was adopted as her own by a very wealthy lady, and the old woman described the fortunate young person as 'rolling in riches' somewhere at the present time."
"And very glad to be out of Polesheaton, I should think," remarks Miss Ashburne. "My dear Miss Adair, are you chilly? It struck me as so remarkably mild this morning."
Marlow tenderly adjusts a light shawl round Pansy who is shivering and scanning his face with anxious eyes. But it is evident to her he has not the slightest suspicion of any personal interest in the anecdote.
"You must have some lunch at Polesheaton, darling. We can picnic beside the water lilies. Well, as I was saying, this wealthy young person has proved richer in purse than in character, for my Polesheaton acquaintance indignantly informed me he or she had thrown over the one relation who had toiled and slaved for the childhood of this thankless child, who will probably live yet to be ashamed of such miserable ingratitude. At any rate, for the credit of human nature, let us hope so."
"I am sure, my dear Miss Adair," says Miss Ashburne, "you are not feeling well. I hope Firlands will not prove too relaxing for you. Would you like some refreshment at once? The maid put some sandwiches up, I know."
But Pansy shakes her head, and remarks she will be all right when she recovers from yesterday's journey. They are at the duck pond now, and she shrinks even from the admiring gaze of the children who chase the carriage for pence. There is the baker's shop, with its pretty proprietress looking almost the same as when she gave Pansy buns and gingerbread. There is the butcher's, but his son, grown nearly out of recognition, is serving in his stead. There is the old inn, with its wide yard, where farm labourers have come to dwell since the coaching days departed. There is the side entrance to The Grange. There is the gabled post office.
How small, how shabby it looks. The chimneys seem scarcely safe, and there is an air of decay about it. No, it is no longer a post office. A new post office has arisen at the tinsmith's opposite, nor is the old post office a general shop now. There are a few straw hats in the window, and an old fashioned book. Evidently the Polesheaton milliner and dressmaker has here taken up her abode.
Then where is Aunt Piper living? Has she gone to lodge with one of the neighbours, and how is she able to live without her shop? Pansy is trying to talk all this time about the ancient chest within the church and the gargoyles without, but her heart throbs with longing to see that never-forgotten face once more, and witness Aunt Piper's joy in the embrace of her tenderly loved little Pansy again.
But Mrs. Adair judged rightly that Pansy would not secretly break the
conditions of her inheritance. Any voluntary communication with Aunt Piper means the loss of Silverbeach Manor -- the forfeiture of all future status for herself.
She glances at Marlow. She has chosen the very room at Silverbeach where he is to write. His study is to face the rose garden, and be luxurious and fair as her wealth can devise. For his sake she must at any cost keep Silverbeach. What a change the Manor will be for his poet-life after his bachelor lodgings in town, where he has spent so little on his own tastes and comfort.
Yet if she could only see Aunt Piper without being herself perceived -- if that simply clad figure, in its quiet bonnet and dress of black or grey, were only at this moment to pass down the street. And Deb -- why, the child must actually be between eighteen and nineteen now, almost a woman! Yet Pansy looks to right and left, thinking that however Deb may have sprung up, she would recognize the round, freckled face, the reddish hair, the big blue eyes. Neither Deb nor Aunt Temperance passes down the street, however, and Pansy has no fear that the old woman at Marlow's cottage will know her, for she was a forgetful old body even then, and Pansy knows she is different indeed in appearance to the child who sometimes strayed that way for water lilies.
Pansy is right. To the cottager she represents only "gentlefolks", and she is treated with extreme reverence, the dame apologizing for chipped plates, and remarking that she knows the kind of "chiney" fitting for quality like them, having lived kitchen maid with the Tatlocks. They take their provisions to a grassy knoll overlooking the water. Marlow brings out his painting, and the ladies admire and make comments, Pansy presently availing herself of his materials to sketch on her own account, though with a shaking hand. Presently they hear the rumble of wheels and a cart comes by containing the driver, an elderly lady, and a younger one, who alights to gather a few water lilies.
Pansy moves a little for the stranger to pass, and their eyes meet -- Pansy's in fear and dismay, Martha Sotham's in delighted recognition.
"If it isn't Pansy! Why, whoever would have known you, Pansy, dressed out like that? Who'd have thought to see you look so fine? Mother, it's Pansy! She's hard of hearing, Pansy. Come right along and speak to mother."
"She is a country girl I used to take some notice of," says Pansy to Miss Ashburne. Marlow is filling a little phial with water at the stream, and is intent upon his work.
"Bless me, so it's little Pansy Piper!" says Mrs. Sotham, as Pansy rushes up to the cart to be out of hearing of the others.
"How loud she speaks," says Pansy. "Well, Martha, how are you all? You look just the same as of old."
"Well, you don't," says Martha bluntly. "Fine feathers make fine birds. You look quite the lady, Pansy. Have you heard about my sister Ellen? She's quite the lady, too. She married the hairdresser over at Firlands, with the wax heads in his window always going round."
"Martha," says Pansy, determining inwardly to avoid that shop, "where is Aunt Temperance living now? Is she well? How does she live? "
"If you don't know, I don't, Pansy. We always thought she was with you. A few months after you left she had an illness which affected her head a little. She could not attend to business, and it went down. Father lent her money sometimes, but she could not get along at all. She just seemed to have no heart in it. So a year or two went by, and then she started off one day all alone, talking very strangely about going to find her little Pansy. Deb went right off after her. I don't know if she ever found her, poor soul. Some said you refused to do anything for her, and some said she lived with you. Well, the pony won't wait. Goodbye, Pansy. I just wish Ellen could see how your skirt is draped."
And the Sothams drive off, smiling and nodding, leaving behind them a trembling, unhappy, dazed-looking young woman.
That excursion so thoroughly unnerves Pansy that she pleads a headache, and goes to lie down immediately on returning to the hotel. Her fiancé looks after her anxiously as she ascends the staircase, and longs for the time to come when his frail, fair Pansy will be within his own care and keeping.
A burst of tears somewhat relieves Pansy's headache, and on consideration she cannot see that Martha Sotham's recognition has done her any harm. Marlow was too much engrossed in his painting to hear her awkward greeting, and if Miss Ashburne's wonderment were at all aroused, as Pansy suspects, she knows it is to that lady's interest to ask no questions and make no inquisitive remarks.
"Lady Grace Summit, if you please, miss," says the maid who has accompanied her to Firlands, knocking at her door. "And Miss Ashburne says would you please to take a cup of tea?"
"Let a tray be taken into the drawing room," says Pansy, hastily rising from the bed and bathing her eyes. She is glad of the change of thought this visit will bring, and she puts on her prettiest tea gown, and descends to her private sitting room.
"I am so sorry you have such a wretched headache, darling," says Lady Grace, embracing Pansy who is one of her special pets. "I heard from Major Grenville -- an old friend of Mr. Summit's -- that you were here, and I have just run in to congratulate you. I am charmed, Pansy. Fancy marrying a poet! I fairly adore Mr. Holme's poetry, you know, and it will be delightful to have him at Silverbeach. You must persuade him to live at Silverbeach, of course. We do not want strangers at the Manor. And Mr. Summit and I want you to do us a favour, Pansy. I do so enjoy getting up a wedding. We want you to be married from our house, and it shall be the prettiest wedding ever seen in the country. It is not to be for some time yet? Well, when it does come off, remember it is to be from our house, and I will help you meanwhile to get your trousseau. But I think you are looking very poorly, Pansy. You never quite got over that sad shock of losing poor dear Mrs. Adair. Yes, I will take some tea, thank you, Miss Ashburne."
So Lady Grace Summit glides on, while her husband murmurs acquiescence in hospitable invitation, and eats pound cake on the ottoman. Pansy cheers up in discussing the interesting event which at some future time is to excite the neighbourhood of Silverbeach, but she elects to dine in private today. She feels unequal to undergoing possible recognition from the old gentleman who sat near her yesterday at dinner.
The following day she notices that the head waiter at the hotel regards her attentively, and the suspicion crosses her mind that his parents live at Polesheaton, and she has sometimes served him across the post office counter. Another time she meets old Farmer Sotham himself on the hotel steps, bringing poultry and butter, and once in a Firlands shop she sees an assistant with whom she used to play as a child on Polesheaton Green. Altogether she resolves to make a pretext to leave before her week is out, and she heartily repents that she ever ventured back to this neighbourhood of memories.
Chapter 11
A Plea for Charity
THE Wilberforce Hotel has placed one of its most elegant and expensive chambers at the disposal of Miss Adair of Silverbeach, but Pansy believes that the humblest maid beneath the roof of the hotel has calmer, sweeter sleep at night than she whose windows are graced by costly curtains, whose bed is luxurious as money and care can procure, and whose walls are tasteful with artistic paper showing golden lilies in the light of the tinted night lamp.
Now that Pansy is alone and has time to think, her heart aches in the remembrance of Martha Sotham's words, that the little business in Polesheaton grew gradually less and less, and illness came upon Aunt Temperance and weakened her energies till at last she spoke in a wandering way of seeking her little Pansy, and left her old home and her friends to roam in bewilderment -- whither? What has become of her? She may be in need and difficulty. She may be ill. Surely it would not be counted as "voluntary communication" with her to send her assistance through some mutual friend.
Though their paths forever lie apart, Pansy feels she must in some way ensure that the aunt who cared for her childhood is in ease and comfort. Oh, if she had told Marlow the truth from the beginning, but she knows his horror of deceit. She feels she cannot bring herself to reveal to him that she is the miserably ungrateful favourite of fortune of whom he spoke in thei
r drive.
One day when Marlow Holme is engaged for some hours on YMCA business, and Miss Ashburne is in bed with an influenza cold which prevents all idea of travelling to London for the present, Pansy wanders among the pines for a while. Later she shops a little with Lady Grace, excusing herself from the hairdresser's, for within there she catches sight of her former companion, Ellen Sotham the farmer's daughter, now wife of the proprietor, and looking extremely elegant in black satin and a gold chain, her hair quite a marvel of professional skill.
Finally, her restless thoughts decide her to engage a pony carriage from the hotel and drive alone -- how well she remembers the way -- to Farmer Sotham's to ask further concerning Aunt Temperance, and to endeavour through the farmer to provide her aunt with money. Even Marlow would not be in the way today. She is glad he is absent from her side. For once she will be Pansy Piper again, and feel free to learn all she can about the little shop, and prove to her old friends that she has not wholly forgotten her aunt's love and kindness.
She provides herself in Firlands with a graceful wool shawl of French grey as a gift for Mrs. Sotham, and a black velvet cap for the farmer to protect his head from draughts, and a pretty brooch for Martha, besides a box of confectionery for the younger members of the household.
The pony goes slowly, having but lately come to the Wilberforce Temperance Hotel stables from other ownership, and showing a tendency to stop and graze beside any wayside tavern. At last the chimneys of the old farm are visible, and Pansy passes the stile over which she has climbed so often, to take a short cut to the kitchen door. She arrives through the gate causing great commotion among the poultry in the yard, and almost as much excitement in the breasts of Mrs. Sotham and Martha.
The latter leads the way to the best parlour, and brings a tray with milk and seed cake.
"Now, this is kind of you, Pansy," says Mrs. Sotham, "not to be above calling on your old friends, when they do say you could curl your hair in bank notes, and that you've the loveliest possible place London way -- a finer place than Tatlock Grange itself."