Chapter IX

I EXPLORE THE NEIGHBOURHOOD, AND
BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH MR. LEONARD GLYNNE.

I WAS downstairs by eight o'clock the next morning, for I had always been accustomed to early hours. My appearance took the housemaid, who was dusting the dining-room, by surprise. Breakfast would not be ready for half an hour, she said, so I betook myself to the garden, which looked most inviting in the bright sunlight of the first June morning.

Birds were fluttering to and fro between the lawn and the mulberry tree, picking up their breakfast with much satisfaction. A delicious breath of sweet-briar was wafted to me as I descended the stone steps from the balcony. There were rose trees here and there on the beds, and roses were trained across the rustic arches, which at each end of the laurel hedge crossed the broad gravel path where it led down into the more homely kitchen garden. Some of these were in bloom, and by standing on tiptoe I managed to secure one half-blown beauty, which I fastened in my gown.

To the left of the house, as I stood facing it, was a long greenhouse. It had been locked on the previous evening, and I had only been able to catch tantalising glimpses of the flowers through the glass, but now I saw that the door stood open. I hastened to enter it. There was nothing more rare to be seen within than fine geraniums and fuchsias, with maidenhair and other ferns; but I enjoyed looking at the bright flowers.

Close beside the door of the greenhouse was a door leading into the stable-yard. This, too, stood open, and through it I caught sight of a young man engaged in grooming a fine chestnut horse. It was a lovely creature, light and graceful in movement; and being an ardent lover of animals, I could not resist standing in the doorway to watch it. I admired the horse's shapely head, its bright, glossy coat, and the dainty white fore-foot with which it was proudly pawing the ground as if anxious to draw attention to his beauty.

I knew enough of horses to be sure that this was a valuable animal, and I wondered a little, for it scarcely seemed fit to draw the brougham which I saw standing in the yard. I should have thought, moreover, that an old lady like Mrs. Lyell would have preferred to use a less highbred, spirited animal than this appeared.

Presently the man turned and saw me watching him at his task. I ventured a "Good morning," to which he responded awkwardly. I made a remark on the beauty of the day, but elicited nothing beyond a sheepish assent. I heard afterwards that he was the son of the morose-looking old gardener I had encountered the evening before. Evidently he had inherited the taciturn temperament of his parent.

I turned back towards the house and met Clara, the housemaid, coming to tell me that breakfast was on the table. I went indoors and sat down to the meal in solitary state. How I longed for my dear kittens, which I had had to consign to the tender mercies of Salome! As yet I had seen neither cat nor dog upon Mrs. Lyell's premises.

On inquiry I learned from Sarah that Mrs. Lyell never came down before noon, and then, when strong enough, she spent the interval till luncheon in reading and answering her letters, for she had rather a large correspondence, and, although it took her some time to indite a letter, preferred writing herself, whenever possible, to employing an amanuensis. Mrs. Lyell's way of spending her morning fitted in well with my own plans. It left me free to devote to study the hours till dinner.

Soon after breakfast I established myself with my books in the library, a small square room, the window of which looked into the front garden, whilst it communicated by means of folding doors with the large drawing-room lying parallel to the dining-room, and having French windows opening on to the stone balcony at the back of the house. The library Mrs. Lyell had told me I might consider my own room whenever I desired seclusion. It was furnished with high book-shelves, which, however, I found, to my disappointment, contained only the oldest and driest of books. However, as Miss Carefull had lent me a number of books, and planned for me a course of work with these, I was not dependent on the resources of Mrs. Lyell's library, to which no book had been added since her husband's death, some years before I was born.

To one so unused to application as I was, it was not easy to settle to work amidst strange surroundings. For some time my eyes would keep wandering to the window, and I found myself idly watching the insects fluttering above the pond, the old bent gardener going leisurely about his work, or the few passers along the quiet road, who, especially if children, would often pause and stand peering through the iron gates at the pretty garden within. At last, a sense of shame roused me, I goaded my flagging resolution with the thought of all that depended on my exertions, and set to work in good earnest. The rest of the morning fled quickly.

Not till the dinner hour came did I see Mrs. Lyell. She met me with the sweet, serene kindness which is one of the greatest charms of the aged.

"Well, my love, have you been at work?" she said, tenderly. "Not working too hard, I hope; you must not overdo it. Your cheeks look rather pale. Do you not think so, Sarah?"

"Yes, madam; Miss Carmichael does not appear strong," said the maid.

"You are mistaken," I replied, rather vexed by this remark; "I am as strong as possible."

But this statement neither seemed able to believe. Hardly a day passed after this without Mrs. Lyell's giving me a similar warning against over-work, and it was one of the trials of my new position that everyone in the household would persist in treating me as if I were very delicate. I was warned against running into the garden without my hat; if I stayed there too late in the evening, Sarah would presently appear with a shawl for me and a reminder that the dew was falling, and she feared my shoes were thin; whilst endeavours to dose me with bark, port wine, and beef tea tried my temper sadly.

After dinner I sat and talked with Mrs. Lyell for a while, and read to her scraps from the newspaper. She was rather deaf, but was not aware of her infirmity, and had a great dislike to anyone, as she expressed it, "shouting at her as if she were deaf," so I had some difficulty in modulating my voice so as to catch her ear without annoying her by its loudness.

Presently Sarah appeared and took her mistress upstairs, where she always rested for an hour or so of an afternoon. Now I was free to take a walk, and I lost no time in setting off, being anxious to see what sort of a place Weylea was.

It was a large scattered village, quaint and rustic still, though London was fast encroaching on it. Its bounds extended for many miles; there was North and South Weylea, besides East Weylea, where Mrs. Lyell resided, though perhaps as they lay a mile or two apart, each place so styled deserved to be regarded as a separate village.

I wandered along the winding street of East Weylea, looking with pleasure on the old-fashioned houses, many of them the abodes of gentlefolks, and the thatched cottages and funny little shops scattered between. I was struck with the number of narrow fenced passages, overhung by fine trees, which ran in and out amongst the houses. Following one of these it brought me, after many windings, into the main London road again, which I had already crossed in order to gain the village.

I was now, however, at a point at some distance from Mrs. Lyell's. The old road looked very pleasant, and, allured by the delight of walking amidst fresh scenes, I pressed on without thinking how far I was going.

Presently, at the corner of a cross-road, the name Beechwood caught my eye. Was I near Beechwood? I must go there and take a look at the place where my brother's friend lived. So I turned into the narrower road. A pleasant road it was, with tall hedges and grand old trees skirting it, very different from the roads about Burford. Here and there the footpath rose considerably higher than the road, and I caught glimpses of the country around, bright with the emerald verdure of early summer.

But I had some way to go ere I reached Beechwood. Down one long hill and then up another equally long and steep I went, ere the road opened into a broad village green, bounded on either side by plantations of noble trees. All my life I have been a lover of trees, and I rejoiced to find that the neighbourhood of Weylea was remarkable for the beauty of its trees.

Crossing the green, I went on along a road shaded by stately beeches, till I came to some large iron gates. These, I felt sure, guarded the way to Beechwood Hall. I looked through the gates only to see that the carriage drive turned sharply to the left, and the house was not visible. No one was in sight, and so keen was my curiosity that I ventured to step inside the gates, and passed before the windows of the little lodge in order to satisfy myself.

Yes, there was the old and rather broken avenue of beeches, which Edmund had described to me, and the stately old house, forming three sides of a square. I looked intently at it for a few seconds, not liking to move nearer; then, turning, abruptly, I almost knocked over a little lady who had just come out of the lodge. Though little, however, she was sturdy, and quickly recovered from the shock of the collision.

"I beg your pardon, I am sure," I stammered, hot and confused, as I met the inquiring glance of her calm, grey eyes.

Even in my confusion, her face I struck me as different from any other I had ever seen. There was such a look of strength and loving kindness, blended with a certain sadness in her expression. She wore a black gown of rich material, though simply made; there was a narrow border of white within her close-fitting bonnet, and a long veil floated behind it.

"Do not mention it; I was to blame as much as you," she said, brightly; "I was looking at Mrs. Grey, and did not see you were so near."

She spoke in a sweet, clear, buoyant tone, the sweetest voice it seemed to me that I had ever heard; and I think so still.

Bowing, I turned away without another word. What she thought of my presence there I could not conjecture. Mrs. Grey, standing at the door of the lodge with her baby in her arms, eyed me curiously as I went by.

As I walked back to Weylea, I remembered that Edmund had spoken of a widowed sister of Ralph Dugdale's, who lived at Beechwood Hall. This, then, was she. As I came to this conclusion, I asked myself again, "What could she have thought of me?"

She did not look as if she could think unkindly of anyone. I carried with me a vivid impression of her face. She could not have been many years older than myself, but her look revealed depths of character into which I could not penetrate. It was strange how in so brief a meeting, this stranger had fascinated me. I could not help thinking about her all the way home. Was it a proof that she was destined to play an important part in the development of my life? I had no presentiment that it was so.

When I reached Mrs. Lyell's, Sarah opened the door to me and told me, with suppressed indignation in her bearing, that tea had been on the table for a quarter of an hour, and Mrs. Lyell was waiting for me. I had committed the unpardonable sin of arriving late for a meal. Mrs. Lyell looked grave as she inquired if I had met with any accident to detain me.

After tea, Mrs. Lyell asked me if I had yet written to my sister to acquaint her with the fact of my safe arrival at Weylea. I replied in the negative.

"Then you will do so, my dear, will you not?" she inquired, rather anxiously.

"Oh! There is no need to write," I said, carelessly; "Mabel will not disturb herself about me."

Mrs. Lyell looked at me in surprise. "Are you not fond of your sister, Dorothy?" she asked, after a pause.

"Oh, yes," I exclaimed, "I used to love her intensely before she married; but since then she has been so different. And now she has a baby, she will care less for me than ever."

A pained expression came to Mrs. Lyell's face. "Then you have all the more to love, dear," she said, gently. "It grieves me to hear you say that you used to love your sister. You cannot know what true love is, or you would not speak so. We do well to guard and cherish our own love, but it is a mistake to exact love in return. Believe me, Dorothy, it is far better to love than to be loved."

I was silent, feeling rather piqued at being told that I did not know what true love was.

"What sort of a man is your brother-in-law?" inquired Mrs. Lyell, a few minutes later. "Do you love him, Dorothy?"

"No, that I do not," I answered, decidedly. "There are some people we cannot love, and he is one."

"Pardon me, dear," said Mrs. Lyell, gravely, "there is no one whom it is impossible to love. We are told to love even our enemies, and God does not require of us that which we cannot do."

"It is impossible to me!" I broke in, hotly. "I cannot love a man who is harsh and selfish and unjust, and who makes it clear that he hates me."

"Oh, my dear, do not speak so," said Mrs. Lyell, looking grieved. "I know you cannot love what is wrong and unlovely, but whilst we hate the sin we should love the sinner, if only that he is one of the children of our Father in heaven. However wrong people may be, we can always pray for them, and we soon learn to love those we pray for."

But her words did not touch me; I could not receive them then. I did not continue the discussion, because I was fearful of saying what would grieve her still more. To please Mrs. Lyell, I sat down and wrote a letter to Mabel, but I wrote in a cold, constrained manner, for I still felt angry with my sister. This done, I settled to needlework till Mrs. Lyell invited me to have a game of draughts with her. Thus the long evening passed.

This first day at Weylea was a specimen of most of the days I spent there during the next month. The only break in their monotony was that once a week I went up to London in order to take French and arithmetic lessons at Miss Carefull's. I must say I often wearied of the unbroken routine. To be constantly in the society of the aged, however dear and good they be, is a trying experience for any young person. There were days when I found Mrs. Lyell's oft repeated narrations exceedingly tedious, and the stillness of the house so oppressive, that I longed to scream, sing, dance—do anything, in short, to break the quietude.

The wet days were the worst, and we had many ere the month of June was past. If it were fine, I could relieve my irritation by a scamper round the garden, though sometimes my enjoyment of such childish abandonment was checked by catching sight of Sarah's face at an upper window, gravely watching me. She never lost an opportunity of watching me, yet I felt that her interest in me was not kindly. Instinctively I knew that she disliked me, though why was a mystery to me, unless it were that she was jealous of her mistress's love for me, which the dear old lady made more and more manifest as we became better acquainted with each other.

Oh, how I longed sometimes for the presence of young life in that staid household! A strange feeling would come over me as if I, too, were growing old. The only young thing on the premises beside myself apparently was the beautiful chestnut horse, and I was not content till I had made friends with him. To do so, I had first to conciliate his taciturn guardian, and win from him the freedom of the stable. I was not to be deterred by Sam's representations that his charge was uncertain of temper, and might as like as not kick out at me.

I fell into the habit of slipping round to the stable almost as often as I went into the garden. Opening the door and advancing to the side of the loose box, I would call the horse in the most coaxing, alluring manner I could assume. His name I had not yet discovered. He had a name, I knew, for I had asked Sam, and he had pronounced it several times for my benefit, leaving me, however, no wiser than that the name was something like "Hairy Hal," which seemed too absurd. However, without the aid of a name, I soon succeeded in winning the horse's confidence, and he would turn towards me with evident pleasure when I appeared, and would put his lovely head over the side of the box, that I might stroke his nose and give him the piece of sugar that he loved.

Every day Sam took the horse out for exercise; but I did not see him between the shafts of the brougham. Mrs. Lyell talked of taking me for a drive, but day after day went by and the wind was too cold or the air too damp for her to venture out. But towards the end of June there came such a lovely warm day that even Sarah owned that her mistress would run no risk in taking a drive. The carriage was ordered for three o'clock, and came round punctually to the moment. A few minutes before, the postman had arrived, bringing Mrs. Lyell a letter with a foreign postmark.

"From Leonard," she said, with pleasure, as she opened it.

He had written dutifully to his aunt once or twice during his absence, but his letters, which I was permitted to see, were very short, and gave only the barest information as to his doings. This was no exception.

"Only a few lines to tell me that he will be at home by the end of the week," said Mrs. Lyell, as she laid it down.

Upon which we went out to the carriage, I rather curious to see how my chestnut beauty would deport himself under rein. But though the brougham familiar to my eyes stood before the door, a horse of another hue and build was harnessed to it, and it was not Sam who sat on the box. Yet I had never seen but one horse or man in Mrs. Lyell's stables.

"Why, Sarah!" I exclaimed, in my surprise. "This is not the horse I generally see in the stable."

Sarah looked at roe as if she thought I had taken leave of my senses. "To be sure not, miss," she said. "Do you think Mr. Glynne would let his horse draw the brougham?"

"Oh! Is that his horse?" I asked, bewildered.

"Certainly it is. My mistress has not kept a horse for years. So seldom as she drives out, it would be no good. When she wishes to use the carriage, she has a horse and man from the livery stables at the Stag's Head." So saying, Sarah helped her mistress into the carriage, and carefully arranged the cushions and wraps about her.

"My dear," said Mrs. Lyell, as I took my place beside her, "you look very puzzled."

"I cannot understand it," I replied. "Does Mr. Glynne live here, that he keeps his horse in your stables?"

"He does not live in my house," said Mrs. Lyell, "but he lives close by. His lodgings are within ten minutes' walk. How strange that you did not know! I must have told you. We will drive that way, and you shall see where he lives."

It was certainly strange that I should have remained so long in ignorance of this fact. I remembered now that in speaking of the horse, Sam had once or twice referred to Mr. Glynne in a way that seemed to me rather irrelevant.

Was it strange that my heart grew lighter as I received this news? After all I was not the only young person connected with Mrs. Lyell's household. There was another who would surely pass to and fro here pretty frequently if he did not tarry. I suppose my face must have brightened, too, with this thought, for suddenly I caught Sarah's eyes fixed upon me with a gaze which seemed to say that she could read what was passing in my mind. Doubtless she credited me with subtler hopes than I had conceived of, for there was something in her look that made me colour deeply as we drove from the door.

On Saturday afternoon I was sitting with Mrs. Lyell. It was a fine day, but I had not been farther than the garden, having worked myself into a headache that morning, which made me languid and depressed. There had been no visitors to the house during the week. Callers were rare at Mrs. Lyell's, though sometimes old friends from distant parts of London would come to take luncheon and spend a few hours with her; but now for several days not even the most frequent visitor, the old clergyman, whose dreary, drawling talk, usually confined to a discussion of his own and Mrs. Lyell's health, and the deathbeds he had lately attended, used to strain my slender patience to the utmost, had been in. I was rather startled, therefore, when, as I was trying to pick up some dropped stitches in Mrs. Lyell's knitting, the stillness of the house was suddenly broken by a sharp, decided peal of the house-bell.

"That sounds like Mr. Glynne's ring, ma'am," observed Sarah, who was laying the table for tea.

"Ah, it is he, no doubt," said Mrs. Lyell; "he has come back, dear fellow."

To my vexation I felt the colour rising in my cheeks, and at the same time was aware that Sarah's keen eyes were upon me. Yet it was not pleasure that I felt at the thought of making Mr. Leonard Glynne's acquaintance. The shyness at meeting strangers, for which Mabel had so often rallied me, came over me once more. I was annoyed that Mrs. Lyell's nephew should arrive just now, when I was headachy and out of sorts.

He it was, however, and in another minute he was in the room, greeting his aunt in the kindliest fashion, and listening, with amusement sparkling in his eyes, to her exclamations at his sunburnt, healthy appearance. How bright of hue, how strong and vigorous he looked as he stood bending down to the pale, withered little old lady in the arm chair. Stealing a glance at him, I decided that the photograph did not do him justice; he was even better-looking than it made him appear.

"You see I have a young companion now, Leonard," said his aunt; "this is Miss Dorothy Carmichael, of whom you have heard."

As we shook hands, his eyes met mine with a curious, questioning glance. Perhaps he wondered what sort of girl could be content to share his aged aunt's quiet home. Anyhow, I divined that I had some interest for him.

"Yes, I am rather brown," he said, in reply to Mrs. Lyell's remarks; "but so would you be, aunt, if you had been toiling up mountains or crossing glaciers beneath a burning sun as I have."

Whereupon his merry glance sought mine, and I laughed, as did Mrs. Lyell, too, at the idea of her achieving such exploits.

"I suppose you did not meet with any one whom you knew abroad?" said Mrs. Lyell.

"Oh, yes; I met with several acquaintances. At Chamounix, I fell in with the Carsdales. Mrs. Carsdale is better; they talk of coming home in the autumn."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Lyell, with a certain stiffness of manner and change of face, of which I had learned the meaning.

Who were the Carsdales? I had not heard of them before. Clearly they were not favourites with Mrs. Lyell. Good, kind-hearted, little woman that she was, she had her prejudices I knew. After a minute, her manner softened, and she said, though not without an appearance of effort, "I am glad Mrs. Carsdale is better."

We sat down to take tea. What a different meal it was from any I had yet taken in Mrs. Lyell's house. Some shyness was at first experienced by me as I presided, with that bright, brown face opposite to me and the brown eyes constantly watching me. But the feeling soon passed. It was pleasant to meet the gaze of Leonard Glynne, pleasant to listen to his talk. Mrs. Lyell enjoyed it as much as I did, for she had no difficulty in hearing his clear, strong tones.

When tea was over, Mr. Glynne rose, saying that he must go round to the stable and see how his horse had fared during his absence.

I suppose he saw that I looked interested, for he asked me if I would come too. "But perhaps you do not care for horses," he added.

"On the contrary," I replied, "I care for them so much that I have already made friends with your steed."

"Indeed!" he said, with a look of pleasure. "I am glad that Ariel has had someone to pet him in my absence."

"Ariel!" I cried. "So that is the name! I could get from Sam nothing nearer it than 'Hairy Hal.'"

We laughed merrily at Sam's defective pronunciation. How good it was to laugh once more with a congenial companion! I had not had such a laugh since I came to Mrs. Lyell's. We made a long visit to Ariel, and strolled about the garden for a while before going in. By that time a perfect sense of comradeship united us.

The rest of the evening was passed in looking at the Swiss views Leonard Glynne had brought with him, and listening to his animated description of the scenes they represented, with many an amusing story of his adventures. Very short that evening seemed. It left me strangely happy, with an indefinable sense that everything had changed, and my life at Weylea could no longer be devoid of interest.

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