"Silverbeach Manor is very beautiful," says Pansy, "and Mrs. Adair has left me well off." She makes no mention of the condition of her wealth. "But, Mrs. Sotham, I did not come to talk about myself. I want to do something for poor Aunt Temperance. Do you mean to say nobody knows where she is? "
"Polesheaton people don't know," answers the farmer's wife when Pansy has repeated her inquiry in louder tones. "Martha, my dear, we might put up a jar of that quince jelly for Pansy. She'll remember the old quince tree, and how many a time you girls have climbed into it. Ah, you wouldn't be seen climbing the quince tree now, would you, my dear? "
"I am grown up now," says Pansy, yet with half a sigh for the days of fun and freedom. "Then you can give me no advice, Mrs. Sotham, as to how I could possibly provide for poor Aunt Piper's support?"
"My dear child, we don't even know that she's alive, though many's the time her name is brought up at prayer meeting, and I doubt not she's somewhere under the good Lord's care. Mr. Sotham did his best to look after her, Pansy, though what with bad harvests, and a big family, and having to keep the place in repair, there's not too much money in my husband's pockets, I assure you. But your poor aunt would have been welcome to more than the little she had from us, if only she'd have let us know in a neighbourly way she were so dreadfully badly off. Away she went, without so much as 'by your leave' or 'with your leave', and Deb found a scrap of writing to say she'd gone seeking for you, and the landlord could have her stock and bits of furniture to settle what she owed for rent."
"She'd be proud to know you were trying to find her out, Pansy," says Martha. "I'll speak to Father, and maybe he will get news of her yet, for he meets a many in the markets, and he shall make inquiries for you. I suppose you'd have her to live with you at Silverbeach? I'd like to get a sight of where you live, Pansy. Do tell us about it, and what you do all day."
"My days are not nearly as useful as yours, Martha. I dare say you have charge of the dairy now? "
"That I have, and we supply cream and butter to that grand hotel where your pony chaise belongs. But just think of Miss Piper living with you at Silverbeach. It's no more than you ought to do, Pansy. I'm always one to speak my mind, as you know, but it will be a rare good thing for the poor soul after all her ups and downs. And there's nobody we love better in Polesheaton than your Aunt Temperance, Pansy."
"I could not arrange for her to live with me," says Pansy, flushing. "My idea was to provide for her comfortably, so that she wanted for nothing. But my household arrangements do not depend on myself, Martha. I am engaged to be married."
Martha shouts the news into her mother's ear, and they ask with much excitement if her "intended" is a lord or a duke. They seem disappointed to hear he is untitled, but Mrs. Sotham cheers up as Pansy tells eloquently of his good works and zeal in so many channels of Christian helpfulness.
"Better marry a Christian than a prince, my dear," she says. "Well, if only your poor aunt could hear the news. I fancy I see her stitching away at some of your clothes. I never saw anybody more at home with her needle. Why, she made your frocks when you were quite a little thing, Pansy. Many's the time I've seen her sewing away at the tucks and frills, so as you could be cosy and smart, when she ought to have been taking her rest. When you were gone, Pansy, she said she perceived you had been her idol, and so God had taken you away to afflict her soul."
"Don't cry, dear," says Martha affectionately, for Pansy's tears are falling fast. "I always said you had a heart, though some declared you had forgotten all about the old lady. Of course it is a long while now since she wandered away, and Deb went after her. If we can hear anything at any time about her, we should let you know directly. How nice it would be if she could be traced in time for you to invite her to your wedding!"
Pansy cannot bring herself to tell these worthy people the conditions in which she holds her inheritance, making it impossible for Aunt Temperance to come near Silverbeach Manor. They are delighted with her presents, and part from her most cordially, telling her she looks most wonderfully genteel, and they would give anything to see how she looks when she is wearing her wedding dress.
"The wedding will not come off for some time yet," says Pansy. "Be sure I will send you some cake." With that she drives off, feeling that she is no nearer the end of her anxiety concerning Aunt Temperance than when she sought the farm. As she drives slowly homeward, the intensity of her longing to know what has become of her aunt amounts to pain. Every scene recalls her childhood and early girlhood, and the tenderness that wrapped her round and was tireless for her sake. She wonders if perhaps it is even now too late for earthly help to reach that wandering life.
"Oh, let it not be too late!" prays Pansy in her heart. "Grant, O God, she is living. Let me make her happy, even though our roads must lie apart."
The last evening of Pansy's stay in Firlands, she and Miss Ashburne are invited to dine with the Summits at whose apartments Major Grenville and Marlow Holme will also be present. Pansy sends her maid to assist Miss Ashburne, who is losing her cold, but feels that it has left her weak. Thinking Marlow may be waiting for her at the foot of the staircase, Pansy sails down when she is ready in the most becoming a costume of half-mourning that a West End fashion retailer can provide. Her grey cloak, edged with fur, is round her, and flowers are shining in her hair. One of the waiters, talking to a young gardener whom she had seen working in the grounds of the hotel, looks at her in some perplexity.
"Excuse me, madam," he says, respectfully, "this young man has been waiting some time to see Mr. Holme. Could you please tell him if you know when Mr. Holme will be in? "
"I expect him soon," says Pansy kindly, for the young gardener is all blushes and bows, looking half-dazzled by the radiant vision that shines upon him; "but he may be detained. He is very busy today, as he leaves Firlands tomorrow."
"The gentleman don't know me, your ladyship," says the young fellow hesitantly; and Pansy thinks how honest and pleasant are his looks and tones. "But folks say he is very kind and charitable, and I've heard as how he has a great deal to do with some almshouses, called Thanksgiving Cottages, up in London. There's an old lady as I'm trying hard to get into an almshouse, or something of the sort. I thought if so be as I could tell the gentleman all about it -- but Jenks here tells me, begging your pardon, my lady, as how you're a-going to be his good lady -- and if you'd only have the goodness to put in a word for this here party with Mr. Holme, we'd all be most uncommon grateful to your ladyship."
"I will do what I can," says Pansy, "but I believe the carriage is waiting. I am going out. Please tell me as quickly as possible the facts of the case concerning which you are applying to Mr. Holme."
Jenks has left the hall by this time, and the young man stands with uncovered head, talking earnestly and eagerly to the gracious young lady who waits among the plants and statues to hear his tale.
"The person as I wants to get into Thanksgiving Cottages, miss -- seeing as our minister told me once he had visited them, and nice cosy homelike places they were -- is an old lady that has seen better days. She talks of going into the workhouse, but that we will never let her do. She's a poor broken-down body, my lady, as ever you see, though there's one belonging to her, I'm told, as is rolling in money, but that's neither here nor there, seeing as how she don't take no notice of the old lady, and she have made my Deb promise she'll never ask no favours nor no money for her from them as washes their hands of her -- more shame to them, begging your ladyship's pardon."
His speech is so eager as to become involved, and Pansy shivers, though her cloak is cosily lined and the evening is warm. She fixes her eyes on his face, and says in a voice that scarcely seems her own, "Tell me more. Who is she? Where is she? You want to get her in the almshouse?"
"That's better, at any rate, than the workhouse, my lady, thanking you for your kind interest in the poor old party. She isn't so to speak altogether right in her head at times. Deb says it's the trouble have broken her down, but then again at ot
her times she'll seem to come to herself, and when she do she frets at being a burden on Deb, and nothing will content her but that we promise to put her somewhere where she'll be no expense to Deb."
"Who is Deb?" asks Pansy, putting her hand to her head. She thinks she hears Miss Ashburne's voice in the corridor above, but she must comprehend who it is this young man is trying to get into the almshouse.
"Deb is my wife, your ladyship," he says, a little proudly. "We've been married five weeks next Tuesday. I were engaged for a thorough good place -- a lodge and all -- and directly I knows my good fortune I says, 'We'll get married, Deb, my girl, right off', for we'd been engaged nigh a year. Says I, 'We're young and strong, and we'll work hard, and fare hard, and pray hard, Deb, as I heard a good minister advise a young pair once, and the old lady shall live along with us and want for nothing.' So we got married, my lady, and come to Firlands a month ago, and we hadn't got into the lodge before my master that was to be had some property left him in Scotland, and he let his place here right off to a gentleman as brought his own servants. There was gardeners already on his Scottish estate, and he said as how he wanted to keep on the old hands if he could. He give me a sovereign, and I looked here and there for a job. I've got work here for a bit, but it won't last long. Deb, she takes in washing, and she's hard at it day and night, so to speak, and the old lady sews a bit; but that's all she can do. Do you think you could speak a word for the poor body to the good gentleman, my lady? "
"Come in here," says Pansy, opening the door of a little sitting room, for she can hear Miss Ashburne coming down the stairs. "I can listen better here."
"This is where Jenks put her to wait, my lady. I brought the old lady along with me. Miss Piper, ma'am, rouse yourself a bit. The good gentleman isn't in yet, but here's a kind lady as is going to do her best to get you a real happy home."
For an instant their eyes meet. A light comes into the changed, sunken face, aged by illness and sorrow. The shabby old woman in the thin black dress lays a trembling hand on Pansy's silvery fur with a gasp of delight. But Pansy hears Miss Ashburne's voice and Major Grenville's step in the hall -- another moment and the story will be public. She turns hastily away, tells the young man she will see what she can do, but she can spare him no more time. He thanks her humbly and gratefully, and the aged figure in the corner of the little room sinks back listlessly into her usual state of quietude.
Pansy does not know how she gets through that evening, or how she converses with her host to whose care she is entrusted for dinner. Everyone notices how unwell she looks, and Lady Grace tells her, smilingly, that she is evidently pining for her lost liberty.
"I fear I made a mistake, darling," says Marlow Holme during the evening, "in pressing you to come to Firlands. Some say the air is relaxing here, but it does not suit you at all. Your head aches, does it not, sweetheart?"
They are together in the fernery at the back of the drawing room, and he draws her tenderly into his arms. Pansy longs to lean her head on his shoulder and tell him her troubles and the shock she has received this day. But he would never think the same of her again if he knew she had deceived him in concealing her former obscurity. Marlow is so different in his notions to other people that he might even advise her to become Aunt Piper's child once more and give up her splendid inheritance.
"Yes, Marlow," she says, half sobbing, "my head aches badly, and the music confuses it. I do not think Firlands can suit me. I feel so depressed and out of sorts altogether."
"I know the mood you mean, Pansy," he says. "I have had many a grey, clouded day of my own. The only comfort is that no mood, no depression, can shut us from the Master's love. He loves us and remembers us and cares for us, whether we be cast down or in sunlight."
Chapter 12
Mobs's Text Card.
NEXT morning Pansy and Miss Ashburne are breakfasting together at the hotel, prior to their journey by train to London, and the older lady is admonishing the younger concerning her lack of appetite, when a bustle is heard in the corridor and Martha Sotham rushes in, exclaiming excitedly, "I would not let them announce me -- I know the London train goes soon -- but you will delay your return to town, will you not, Pansy? I told you I would try and get news of Miss Temperance Piper. Whatever do you think? She is in Firlands, poor soul. And Deb is married, and----"
"Miss Ashburne, Miss Sotham," says Pansy, somewhat nervously, "I do not think you have met before. Martha, your visit is an early one. You will be glad, no doubt, of a cup of coffee."
"I have finished," says Miss Ashburne. "I must just see how the maid is getting on with the packing. Pray take my seat, Miss Sotham."
Greatly to Pansy's relief her companion glides away, aware that she would be one too many in the conversation. But Miss Ashburne has already made up her mind to try and unearth this mystery that concerns the lady of Silverbeach. The knowledge might give her a hold over Pansy, which would be personally advantageous.
"Quite the lady, isn't she?" observes Martha, watching Miss Ashburne's retreating figure. "No, thank you, Pansy, no coffee. I breakfasted at seven, because it's father's day to drive to Firlands and call at the Wilberforce, and I thought I could just catch you before you left. But when you hear my news you'll be for staying here awhile longer, I know. Some of our Polesheaton folks have seen Miss Piper in Firlands, and I know now where she lives. Oh, Pansy, they do say she looks so very poor. She'll be as proud as a queen to find you've been fretting about her and to have a sight of you again. Deb has married a gardener, but they have a struggle to get along, I fancy."
"I cannot give you long, Martha," says Pansy, looking confused, and taking out her watch, which causes Martha to say, "Set with diamonds -- what a beauty!"
"I never like to hurry for a train, and all our arrangements are complete to return to London this morning. I was aware of what you told me already. I knew it yesterday."
"Oh, then, you have seen your Aunt Temperance," cries Martha excitedly. "Mother will be pleased. The poor old lady must have been half wild with delight to see you again. Do tell me all about it, Pansy. Is Miss Piper changed very much? And whatever did Deb say when you went there, looking so genteel? "
"Martha," comes the constrained reply, "there are family circumstances to which I can only allude in confidence. I do not wish my affairs to be the talk of Polesheaton, but I may as well tell you at once, quite between ourselves, that I have not conversed with Aunt Temperance. Nor shall I be able to do so. Our lives must lie apart. I was naturally anxious to know something of her fate when I called upon you, and I shall entrust your father with a sum of money for her use. But I cannot visit her, or in any other way acknowledge our relationship."
"But why not?" asks Martha, with wondering eyes. "I don't see why you should not get her some good clothes, and have her to live with you at Silverbeach. I know I'll look after my mother as long as I can, and folks say Miss Piper was every bit like a mother to you, Pansy. I think it will be a shame if you don't see a good deal of her, poor soul, now that you are quite your own mistress.
"I am not my own mistress," says Pansy, agitatedly. "Very few people know the condition of my riches. If I break that condition I am penniless. My property was left to me with the stipulation that I hold no willing communication with Aunt Temperance. Mrs. Adair had taken a dislike to her, I think, and to all idea of my former life. I seemed so entirely to belong to her at last. I love Silverbeach dearly. It goes to a stranger if I break the stipulation. So you see, Martha, I am in honour bound to see nothing of Aunt Temperance, and to refrain from speaking to her or writing to her, whatever my own feelings might desire."
"In honour bound," repeats Martha sharply. "Oh, well, if you think so, Pansy, I have nothing more to say. I'm not a grand lady like you are. I am only a plain farmer's daughter, but to my notions the Tower of London and all the jewels in it, and the Bank of England with all its gold, would not be worth going against my conscience for. Anybody's conscience must tell them it's wrong to grieve a heart that h
as borne and done so much for them in the past. It's as bad as Absalom in the Bible -- and there's never been an Absalom yet that came to any good."
"If you please, ma'am, will you wear your grey travelling coat or your brown one?" asks the maid, knocking at the door. "Miss Ashburne desired me to remind you of the time."
"My grey coat. I am just coming," says Pansy hastily. "Come, Martha, let us part friends. I will send your father something substantial for Aunt Temperance. I know he will be kind enough to use it for her benefit. You see now, Martha, I am not to be envied with all my good fortune. 'There is a crook in every lot,' as the hymn says."
"You might finish the verse, Pansy," said Martha, significantly, "for the next lines are more important still. This is how the hymn goes: 'There is a crook in every lot, And an earnest need for prayer. But a lowly heart that leans on Thee, Is happy everywhere.' There, Pansy, I must not be hard on you, for I am not placed just as you are. I will pray you may in all things be guided aright."
Martha departs in her father's cart, looking troubled and perplexed, and in the midst of flattering attentions from the hotel people Miss Adair and her companion are driven to the station, one of them feeling thankful in her heart when the pines of Firlands are lost to sight.
David Rumsay, Deb's husband, lodging at Lower Road Cottages, receives during the morning a note from the graceful lady who conversed with him the previous evening. It encloses five pounds for the case he mentioned, but nothing is said about admission to the institution with which Marlow Holme is connected. Pansy is glad Marlow leaves that afternoon. She would not have him talk with Miss Piper or Deb on any account.
Pansy's first care when she reaches London is to send Farmer Sotham a cheque for her aunt's benefit, asking him to use it as he sees best, and on no account to bring her name into the question, as there are special reasons why she desires that Miss Piper should not associate her with the gift. Having posted the cheque, her conscience feels easier. She tells herself that Farmer Sotham will be sure to make comfortable provision for Miss Piper, and that while careful not to break the stipulation made by poor Mrs. Adair, she has secured her aunt's welfare, and proved her liberality, at any rate, to the Sothams.