Chapter XV: Over the Way

FIVE years earlier, Mrs. Fenwick's house had faced a meadow lying just across the road, with a good open view beyond of fields and trees and uplands. But Hurst was a growing place, and many changes had come about in the course of five years. Among such changes was the erection of a row of houses in the field opposite Mrs. Fenwick's, each more or less pretty—small, indeed, but gable-roofed, and in variegated red-brick style. Mrs. Fenwick was greatly annoyed. She did not much care about pretty views, merely as views, but she did care extremely about what she called "selectness," and to live in a row facing another row was in her estimation many degrees less "select" than to live in a row facing a meadow. She almost declared, in her first vexation, that she would find another home as soon as possible, and she did quite declare that nothing should ever induce her to call upon anybody who lived in those houses.

The latest finished of the villas was the one which stood exactly "vis-à-vis" to Mrs. Fenwick's. It was detached and surrounded by a neat garden, not painfully prim and bare like most new gardens, for several medium-sized limes and poplars had been spared from the general demolition in which the hearts of builders do commonly delight. Also the borders had been well filled with young shrubs, early in the spring, immediately the house came into possession of its present owners, and the beds gave promise of being speedily bright with flowers.

The said owners were two ladies, supposed at first to be aunt and niece. Despite Diana Fenwick's chagrin at the loss of her drawing-room view, she took a lively interest in these new neighbours, and speedily set down Miss Carmichael, the elder lady, as a strong-minded individual of eccentric habits, undesirable as an acquaintance.

"Call upon her! Not she!" Diana held up her head, and swept loftily past the house, quite unconscious of the amusement with which she was herself regarded by that rather largely-built calm-faced woman, in daintily neat though not very fashionable attire, who might often be seen bonnetless in the little garden. Miss Carmichael perfectly well understood the posture of affairs, and was perfectly well content to wait.

These views of Mrs. Fenwick lasted for a short time, while the two ladies opposite were settling into their new home. The said views then received a killing blow, in the discovery that Miss Carmichael was only daughter of a Sir Stephen and Lady Carmichael, both dead, and only sister to another Sir Stephen and Lady Carmichael, both alive. Eccentricities, real or imaginary, went to the winds. Mrs. Fenwick donned her best feathers, and called at once, all sweetness and graciousness, bent on making a good impression; and the call was returned in due time. Mrs. Fenwick did not like Miss Carmichael, but she liked a baronet's daughter, and she was willing to put up with the individual for the sake of the connection. Miss Carmichael might or might not have liked Mrs. Fenwick, but at all events she "showed herself friendly."

The new acquaintanceship did not at first ripen quickly, for the two ladies were busy about their settling in. Miss Carmichael could be seen to take an active part in these arrangements, "working like a horse," as Mrs. Fenwick expressed it. She did not herself see the slightest need for hard work in life, and she disliked others to see it. Things had to be done, of course, but somebody else would always do them—why not?

A second call introduced Mrs. Fenwick to Miss Carmichael's niece, friend, dependent, or companion,—Diana's curiosity was greatly exercised to discover which might be the true definition,—a Miss Wyatt, who appeared to rejoice in a perplexing variety of names, and whose age might have been anywhere between twenty and thirty.

After that, came the summons to Weston-super-Mare, and a consequent break.

One sunny June evening, the two ladies were together in the drawing-room, which was divided from the dining-room by large folding-doors, commonly thrown open in warm weather. They were open now, and the bow-window at each end gave a peculiar lightness to the appearance of the double room. The operation of "settling in" seemed to be tolerably complete, and the most fastidious eye could scarcely have detected anything lacking in arrangements. There was a subdued harmony about carpets and curtains, and also a grace of finish in minor details, which told of a refined taste in at least one of the ladies.

The elder of the two sat in an easy-chair near the front bow-window, enjoying, and enjoying with evident intensity, the sunlight, the fluttering leaves, and the singing of birds not yet banished from this part of Hurst. Not that she was anything of an invalid, though her attitude told of some fatigue. She could hardly have reached her fiftieth year, and the smooth light hair, brushed neatly under her cap, was untouched by grey. The light-coloured eyes had in them a steady shine of happiness,—not exactly a smile, but a kind of sunbeam reflected from within, over the whole face. Yet it was not a beautiful face, so far as form and colouring were concerned,—not even good-looking. No single feature could be selected as serving by a touch of natural beauty to redeem the rest from plainness. And yet again, no one who really knew that face could ever call it plain. Strangers counted it so perhaps, after cursory observation.

The younger lady was slender and small and dark-haired, not nearly so tall as Miss Carmichael, not strictly pretty, but with a nice colour, and a pair of most expressive eyes, peculiar in tint, and timid as those of a fawn. She was in the back room, making tea and cutting bread-and-butter, moving about with a light step, in a manner pleasant to look upon. The two did not dine late, but had "heavy tea" at half-past seven, and it was now close upon that hour.

"I am glad our drawing-room faces west," Miss Wyatt said, shutting the tea-caddy and coming forward, with the air of one whose work is for the moment accomplished. "And I am glad the sunset takes place just there, where we can see it, and not behind Mrs. Fenwick's house, though of course it will not be so all the year round."

"I am glad of a great many things, Hettie, a great many. The lines are fallen to me in 'very' pleasant places."

"And to me too."

"That is something else for me to be glad about,—if you can say the same."

Miss Wyatt drew near, and rested a hand on Miss Carmichael's shoulder.

"It is delicious," she said, "perfectly delicious. We shall be able to breathe here."

"I am taking a good breathing spell before plunging into work."

"Why, you have done nothing but work, Miss Carmichael, since we came. I want you to begin resting now."

"Carpets and curtains! Well, yes, it is all work of one kind and another. But I shall have time now for the 'other.'"

"Yes, only not yet. Think how terribly you were overdone before we came away. I want you to have six months idle. I'll be your deputy, and work for you."

Miss Carmichael smiled quietly, leaning back, with clasped hands, and her look of measureless content. "Six months is a long while," she said. "My dear, you must not be too much bent upon making a lazy old woman of me."

Miss Wyatt repeated the word "Old!" indignantly.

"Forty-eight next birthday!"

"That is only middle-aged, and some people have the gift of perpetual youth."

"Mentally, yes. One's body must grow old, if one stays on earth long enough. It will be perpetual youth up there." And they both looked at a distant lake of liquid blue, surmounting some layers of torn and crimson-edged clouds.

"At all events your body hasn't begun to grow old yet," said Miss Wyatt jealously.

"You think not, Emmie?"

The words were half playful, half grave, and Miss Carmichael's attention went again out of the window.

"What are you looking at so earnestly?" asked Miss Wyatt. "You see, I was right,—our friends over the way are back. They must have arrived late last night, poor things. And the elder girl is with them. She seems to be very unlike the winsome little Pearl."

"We must call upon them again soon," said Miss Carmichael.

"Yes,—soon, I suppose. Is there any hurry? I don't want to be uncharitable, but I don't at all like that little Mrs. Fenwick. I don't like her at all," repeated Miss Wyatt emphatically. "Do you, Miss Carmichael? She thinks herself immensely charming, and expects to be worshipped; but 'I' don't think her charming."

"She is pretty," said Miss Carmichael.

"Pretty, yes—if that were all that signified. A doll may be pretty. But she is affected. And I did so dislike the sort of slighting way she spoke of the eldest of the two girls. She seemed fond of Pearl Fordyce, I thought; but when she alluded to Pearl's sister, there was quite a sneer on her lips, and a contemptuous tone. Oh, I felt really angry. The girl may not be so taking as her sister, but that is not her fault. I can't endure people to be punished for what they cannot help."

"Why, Emerald, you are hot about the matter."

"I feel hot," responded Miss Wyatt. "Didn't you notice what I mean?"

"Yes," Miss Carmichael answered.

"I knew you did. I saw it in your face. You may be quite sure that poor girl is not happy in her home."

"Patience, Em. We may as well not be too sure till we actually know it."

"But I saw her this afternoon, when I was on my way back from the post-office. They were all three walking together. Mrs. Fenwick bowed to me, and so did the little Pearl,—by the bye, she is looking wretchedly white and ill, anything but better for her change. The other girl gave me a good look. She certainly is not pretty or lively—not in the least,—but that is no reason why Mrs. Fenwick should snub her."

"Some people are in the habit of snubbing everybody, as a relief to their own feelings."

"I never heard her speak to Pearl as she spoke to the elder girl, just before she caught sight of me. Such a sharp contemptuous tone. The girl made no answer at all, but she did not look happy. The moment Mrs. Fenwick saw me, she put on her most gracious manner. I don't suppose she thought I had heard; but I have keen ears."

"Particularly so," assented Miss Carmichael. "Come, I see tea is ready, and I think you want a composing draught."

Miss Wyatt laughed, and followed her to the other room, where the subject was dropped. It came up again after tea, however; for, on returning to the bow-window, a closed fly was visible, standing at the opposite door, and the little figure of Pearl became visible also, dressed in white, with a flower in her hair, and a shawl round her shoulders, waiting on the doorstep.

"There's a concert to-night at the hall," said Miss Wyatt. "They are going to it, no doubt."

"But not the elder girl," said Miss Carmichael, as a second figure in plain every-day dress, Cinderella-like in contrast, appeared beside the first.

"It's a shame," said Miss Wyatt.

"It is a pity," said Miss Carmichael.

"Just returned from school, and left alone the very first evening,—I call it a shame," repeated Miss Wyatt. "There comes Mrs. Fenwick, all rustle and bustle and small self-importance."

"Emerald!" pronounced Miss Carmichael softly.

"Yes, I know it is very naughty," said Miss Wyatt; "but if you knew how I do dislike that little woman!"

"Better not to allow active dislike. Disapproval is enough. The little Pearl is certainly ill or unhappy. She looks wretched."

"There they go," said Miss Wyatt. "And the other left behind. Poor girl! I do pity her. She doesn't seem to know what to do with herself. Just look at her, standing like a stock on the doorstep. They didn't even give her a parting smile. She is going to have a stroll in the garden, I believe."

"Suppose you run across and ask her to come here," said Miss Carmichael.

Miss Wyatt hesitated. "What would Mrs. Fenwick think? We have never even spoken to her yet. Wouldn't it seem rather funny?"

"Very funny," assented Miss Carmichael. "I won't venture to predict Mrs. Fenwick's thoughts. You can't go,—you shy puss! Never mind, I will do it myself."

Before Miss Wyatt could make up her mind to action, Miss Carmichael had gone quickly into the passage, and thence through the front garden, moving in a swift decisive fashion of her own.

Beryl, pacing rather drearily along the path in her dust-coloured dress, heard the crunch of feet upon the gravel, and looked up.

"Excuse my freedom," Miss Carmichael said, with her easy unconsciousness, as she smiled at the astonished girl. "You do not know me, but we have made Mrs. Fenwick's acquaintance lately, and I have come to make your acquaintance. I must introduce myself as Miss Carmichael from over the way."

Beryl gave her hand. "O yes, I know," she said, recalling certain animadversions of Diana's upon the speaker's style of dress—a style neither "outré" nor in bad taste, but marked by extreme simplicity.

Miss Carmichael had thrown a little shawl over her head and cap as she passed out of her door, and the kind face looked out from the grey folds, inviting confidence.

"I know," repeated Beryl.

"And you are the sister of little Pearl Fordyce," said Miss Carmichael.

"I'm Beryl Fordyce," was the answer, in the girl's usual blunt fashion.

"Another gem," said Miss Carmichael softly. "Gems for the King's crown, I hope."

Beryl said nothing, and only looked down, but a wistful expression crossed her face, an expression not often seen there. It did not mean assent or pleasure; neither did it mean the least shadow of offence-taking.

"Come, I think we shall be friends," said Miss Carmichael pleasantly. "Will you let me introduce you to my jewel, across the road,—not a Pearl or a Beryl, but an Emerald."

Beryl looked at her doubtfully.

"I am talking plain English," said Miss Carmichael. "Hester Wyatt and I saw you alone, and we wondered if you would like to sit with us, in our cosy nest, for half an hour."

"To go with you? I should not think Aunt Di could mind," considered Beryl aloud.

"Hardly," said Miss Carmichael.

"I don't know; I never can tell beforehand what she will like," said Beryl.

"Do as you think right," said Miss Carmichael.

Beryl's answer was a move towards the gate.

"Would you not care to get your hat? The wind will soon grow chilly."

"It doesn't matter if you don't mind," said Beryl; "I never take cold."

"Come—that is something to be thankful for."

Hester Wyatt met them at the drawing-room door.

"This is my Emerald," Miss Carmichael said, bringing them together, with a hand on the arm of each. "We shall be friends soon, I expect, beginning of course with—Miss Fordyce—Miss Wyatt. And now, Emmie, bring a nice little low chair into the window for Miss Fordyce, and another for yourself, and we will enjoy ourselves. Busy people know the luxury of a lazy hour. I dare say Miss Fordyce has been very busy to-day after her journey of yesterday, and you and I have certainly been so. I think we have all fairly earned a right to a tired evening."

"I don't think I have been busy," said Beryl. "I have only done things—not hard work—and I am not tired."

"You are stronger than your sister," said Miss Carmichael.

"O yes, I am very strong; I never am ill," said Beryl. "But there isn't much to do; I wish there were. I like being really busy."

"I shall have to hand over some of my superfluous work to you some day," said Miss Carmichael. "How about unpacking after your journey?"

"I got up early and did that before breakfast," said Beryl, with her sober unrelaxed face. "I like getting up early."

"So do I, but it doesn't like me. What have you done since?"

"Not much," said Beryl. "I unpacked for Pearl,—and we all had a little walk,—and I have my knitting."

"Are you great at knitting? Then Emmie and you will sympathise on one point. What do you want to ask, my dear?"

"She is direfully puzzled as to my names," said Hester Wyatt.

"I generally have to explain," said Miss Carmichael. "The truth is, I ought to use only the real names of Hester and Hettie before strangers; but I sometimes forget. Hester is the real name. 'Emerald' is just a pet title of my own coining, and 'Emmie' comes naturally from it."

"But why do you call her 'Emerald'?" asked Beryl.

"Lean forward, Hettie," said Miss Carmichael. "So,—a little more. That is the right light. Now, Miss Fordyce, come here. It is 'almost' too dark, but you may get a glimpse. What is the colour of Hettie's eyes?"

And the pretty shy eyes, usually dark, showed suddenly to Beryl's gaze as a clear green.

"No need to explain further," said Miss Carmichael. "That is how she comes to be my Emerald. Pretty, is it not?"

Beryl did not think the colour at all pretty. "It is like a cat," she said bluntly.

And both her companions laughed.

"I am afraid there is no cure for them," said Hester merrily. "Green they are, and green they will be to the end of the chapter."

Beryl found herself in pleasant quarters, and under the genial influences around, her tongue was becoming rapidly unloosed. She liked Hester Wyatt; but she was still more drawn to that calm face opposite, with its strength and sweetness of expression, a face as sweet as Millicent's though with none of her beauty, but the force of character was greater here. Beryl could not have defined the force; she only felt it. Somehow she knew she might trust Miss Carmichael completely, from the first.